The Lord of the Rings by Bixbite Baggins
by The Deepest Wells
Summary: The daughter of Bilbo and Thorn Baggins-Bixbite-is as rare as her namesake, but not nearly as admired. Although the sole child in Bag End, she is seen as unfit to inherit, and thus her cousin Frodo is adopted. But she inherits one thing: her father's ring. fem!Frodo (Bixbite)/Sam pairing, Frodo/Rosie. No slash, first half is bookverse. Please review! :)
1. Not an Heir

My young cousin was always a wise lad, and he told me a long time ago that no good deed comes without a price, even if the results are worth the price you paid. I thought I understood him: every gracious thing I did managed to give me minor grief or sacrifice and major rewards. How he realized this better than I did, I'll never know; I'm seventeen years his senior, and he's a rather carefree sort of creature, but he still manages to understand life itself in a deeper way. He's never seen the world; I've seen all of it, and feared it. He is young and unafraid; I am scarred and broken. He is Frodo Baggins, the rich heir of Bag End, the envy of most lads and object of affection of many lasses in West Farthing, the most educated creature in the Shire.

I am Bixbite, the inferior female cousin and bearer of the One Ring of Power.

While Frodo is the heir of my home, I am in truth the rightful owner here. My father, Bilbo Baggins, was married for only a duration of eighteen short years before my mother, Thorn Bracegirdle, passed away. She named me Bixbite for the vibrant red gems that decorate the finest of dwarvish jewelry. Father often told me she named me right: beautiful, rare, fiery, eye-catching, unique.

I feel anything but beautiful. Rare? That's accurate. Eye-catching? Only for the gossips; I happened to be in a compromising position for many months at one point. Unique? If I wasn't unique before, I had it thrust upon me.

Somehow I couldn't achieve greatness: that was Frodo's calling in life. Mine was to achieve . . . well, difference. Pain. Discipline. Frodo never had to work for his wisdom; it took me seventeen additional years and countless scars to match him.

I suppose I always had one advantage over anyone, one I never recognized until those fatal moments of despair and agony.

~0~

Father came to me when I was twenty-nine, at first. Mother had passed much to the sorrow of us both, and I was heir to Bag End. Father and I would spend evenings together, reading and writing poetry, singing and eating good food. I always loved our food.

As I said, he came to me while I was twenty-nine. He could never remember my birthday—April fifteenth or thereabouts—so we celebrated both of ours on the date of his. It was the evening after a small party in honor of my father's birthday, and the guests were all gone home sometime after midnight the night before. Father and I slept in until noon, but managed to fit in all seven meals before retiring before the fire with some cake and tea, a good book on each of our laps in the hefty, green chairs before the hearth.

He smoked, and I didn't, as was customary between male and female hobbits. But, unlike most lasses, I did not court, and I found needlepoint a rather tedious and—if you'll pardon the mild disdain—useless pastime. I chose to be with Father.

I was lost in a book of the Elves. Father had just recently begun to teach me Elvish, and while this story was difficult to shove through, I found it rather fascinating: it recounted the history of the great Elvish city of Rivendell, of the forests of Lorien, of the mountains beyond the northern border of the Shire. Father and I shared our wanderlust, and I couldn't be taken from this story no matter how loud he shouted my name, or so I soon discovered.

"Bixbite Baggins!"

My eyes shot wide open, and my head snapped up. He settled back in his chair, perhaps having stood and nearly taken the pipe from his mouth. He humphed good-naturedly as he sat, and I set the book aside with great reluctance.

"Yes, Father?"

He smiled at me, blowing a lovely ring from his mouth before replacing the wooden pipe. "My girl, I miss your darling mother very much."

I smiled at him sympathetically; I remembered her well, and knew my father understood her better than I ever did. And that must have hurt him, to lose her: she was kind to me, if not sometimes a little more stern than Father. And she was beautiful—alabaster skin, black curls, and beautiful eyes. I never really got the color until I looked deep into them: forest green, tinted with brown, so it didn't look like either at first glance. I received one of those from her, and a gray-blue eye from my father. I fit into the Tookishness best with my eyes.

I stopped daydreaming about my mother when Father continued in a shakily assertive voice. "I'm afraid, Bixbite, that I miss her so much that I will never marry again."

"Father, that is nothing to apologize for," I interjected. I reached over and laid my hand over his knee. "I'm at peace here with you, and her love remains."

He smiled and shook his head. "My dear, that's not the point. I may be well preserved for now, but that won't always be." Then his eyes got that glint in them, the one local gossips referred to as the Tookishness. "But I'll see to it that I live well past the age of the Old Took, I can promise you that." I laughed, but he grew solemn again.

"I am not ungrateful for you." I drew back, knew something was off. "Truly, I wouldn't have wanted a son in your stead, but I'm afraid you cannot inherit Bag End."

"Father!" I cried. "Why ever not?!"

Father's eyes grew slightly weary at this, exasperated. "It is not done this way. Women simply aren't . . . well . . . strong or self-sufficient enough to be alone, much less to inherit a home such as this. And my dear, you've expressed to me often that you have no desire within you to be betrothed."

I chuckled nervously. "Of course not, Father. I can take care of the hole, I promise!" I reached forward again, clasping his hand in hopes of sympathy from him. "There will always be a Baggins here, under the hill."

"So there shall be," he muttered, glancing back at the fire. "And I will tell you what I have devised. Are you familiar with my cousin Frodo?"

My brow furrowed as I searched my memory, but I knew no such name.

"No, Father."

Father inhaled and exhaled shakily. He didn't like conflict, and while I didn't either, I could hold my own better. "His parents passed away some three years ago. He has been living at Brandy Hall, and I have taken it upon myself to adopt him. He shall inherit the Hill."

I bit my lip to keep my jaw from dropping, and I sank away from Father. He reached for me, but I hardly cared to respond. He tried to reassure me: "Well, he's a perfect choice. You'll love him! He's only thirteen at present, but he's a good lad. Very well educated, well-liked where he's from, and he's a Baggins."

"Frodo Baggins." I wanted the name to slip off my tongue as sweetly as it probably did most of the hobbits that knew him, but it whispered out ridden with sorrow.

Father probed me for a better response, but I had nothing as I processed. I'd always wanted to be Mistress of Bag End, carry on my father's legacy, if not his line. I knew I couldn't do the latter alone. Perhaps Frodo would have to do what I could not.

"Father, I cannot emphasize how much this plan hurts," I said at last. Father's eyes slipped down; I reached forward to brace up his jaw. "But you are right. This is for the best, and I only hope I shall learn to care for him as I ought."

That brought the glimmer back to Father's eyes, but as he rambled off on how Frodo would be brought to the home and what a wonderful time it would be, I collapsed inside. Almost of age, and the moment I received any freedom I would be someone's new stewardship. I would probably become the housewife equivalent in the home now.

I only hoped Frodo Baggins was no obnoxious tween or harsh taskmaster.

 **Thus, welcome to another of Sev's very strange stories. :D If you've read my profile, you know where this came from, but chances are excellent that you haven't, so I'll explain myself: this is a fem!Frodo/Sam pairing story, taking half of its content from the Lord of the Rings novels. Yes, Frodo is still in it, but that is because I didn't have the heart to go through a whole story without him. Besides, he's very important to the plot, as you have hopefully noticed.**

 **The rating of this story is due to highly thematic elements. There is no sexual content, and there will not be any swearing, but highly thematic and hopefully very traumatizing. As I said, the first half is bookverse (of a 64,000 word story), and the last half is my own work. This concept was based both on the fem!Frodo/Sam idea and a Ring/Frodo concept that I liked, just not in the story type it happened to be placed in.**

 **Happy reading! Please review; I love to hear from you guys! :)**


	2. His Sweet Girl

**Jayla Fire Gal: Thanks! :D Okay, so it might take a while to get traumatizing, but I hope you sit back and enjoy in the meantime! :)**

 **Diem Kieu: Yeah, she's got a rough life. :( Hopefully will for a long time (muahahahahaaa). Thank you! :D**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: Thank you so much; I hope you continue to like it! Let me know if there's anything I can change to make it better. :) I probably will, assuming I find time. XD I'll probably do a lot of drawing during the summer; did you have any other suggestions?**

I spent a few more precious months with my father—reading and writing poetry, stories, and songs—before he announced we would go to retrieve Frodo from Brandy Hall, on my thirtieth birthday (although, of course, Father didn't remember that it was the day. His birthdate was important enough to him that he only remembered occasions that occurred on that day, including his wedding to Mother). I wondered somewhat sourly if Father had been this excited at my birth, but didn't care to dwell more on it.

Father and I walked out of West Farthing and up the tidy cobblestone roads to the Brandywine. Just up the river was Brandy Hall, and my stomach sank as I stared up at the great hill with the huge hole built both into it and projecting from it. Perhaps a thousand people lived there; it was huge.

"It's a family home, dear," Father said. I tore my stare from the hill; he'd gotten forward on me because I was so terrified that I'd halted in place. He opened his free arm—the other hand grasped his walking stick—and I raced forward with my own stick into his embrace. He squeezed my shoulders and held me close as we continued up to the hill.

It looked like a huge version of Bag End, but the door was disproportionally small to accommodate for actual hobbit size: the doorframe, also round and carved with gold leaf patterns, constituted the rest of the anticipated size. There were two huge windows on the front of the hole, and flowers leaped out the front to trail down beside the door.

Father led me up the sleek, stone steps of what appeared to be creamy marble, but what was probably just an imitation. He knocked on the door using his walking stick, and footsteps rang out on wooden floors behind the door. Shouts arose as well, of "I've got it, Mum!" and "It must be Fatty!"

Two bright little children answered the door, but I immediately felt jocosity dripping from them both. While I hadn't the hobbit-sense to be out in the Shire and interact with others, I knew a personality at a glance: these two were pranksters. With their bouncy, brown-golden curls and shimmering eyes, their antsy feet and curious fingers, I could only imagine what they were.

"Hey, Bilbo!" the one with a sharp nose and brown-green eyes chippered excitedly.

"Greetings, Masters Took and Brandybuck," Father said, but beyond his formality I caught a wink at the two boys. "We're here for Frodo."

One of them stilled, the one Father addressed as Brandybuck. His expression fell a little, and I gathered perhaps he was the more emotionally in tune of the two. The other that had spoken continued bouncing, although looked a little crestfallen, perhaps at the fact that it wasn't a friend at the door.

A middle-aged woman, robust and beautiful as most women of the Shire are, came bustling to the door. She breathed heavily, and had flour all over the front of her chintz, dull-toned dress and white apron.

"My 'pologies, Master Baggins," she wheezed, pulling the two little boys in to her grasp. "Young Frodo is out helping me 'usband jus' now, but if ye'd kindly come in and wait it'll jus' be a minute or two."

She stepped away with the two boys, scolding them for not helping in the kitchen still, that the guests were already here and had no cakes for tea. I didn't feel hungry, and hoped they didn't go to any more trouble on my behalf. Father led me inside to the bright, oak front room, with soft green couches and bright, wooden tables between the couches. There were expensive, intricate instruments in one corner of the room, and three ways out: a great, teak staircase behind the couches, a white arch leading to what smelled like the kitchen, and the grand, round door we'd just come through. Occasional torches in metal sconces lined the wooden walls, and a candle chandelier at the top of the ceiling illuminated the entire room.

Father looked excited, fidgeting in his seat, at first. I sat solemnly, unable to shake the fact that my life was about to change. No longer would it be just the two of us, with everything we had in common between us: now we would have to share that with an unknown party.

Unknown to me, at least. Father knew him well from when he was small, visiting him here on days I wanted to be alone. Now I wanted to take back all those days, live isolated with my father once again, never leave the hole so long as we had each other.

But it was too late, and apparently that showed in my eyes. I sat as far away from Father on the couch as possible, dreading the moment there would be a little thirteen-year-old between us.

"Bixbite," Father managed at last. He shook his head, then cupped my jaw. I slowly pulled away, resting my head against my stick. "Oh, my dear girl, please understand. You're—well—you're a lady," he insisted. "I want you to be happy and safe, and this seems the best way to do it. Frodo will care well for you when I am gone. I've told him all about you."

My head snapped up. "You what?"

A sweet, soft laugh lifted from the stairwell, and Father and I both stood up. A little lad hopped down the stairs, laden with a sack. He skipped around the oak pole at the base; his eyes widened and brightened when he spotted my father.

"Bilbo!" he exclaimed, leaping into Father's waiting arms. Father's stick clattered to the floor as he embraced the boy—and my jaw dropped. I could only assume that the child was Frodo, and when he looked up I swallowed. He looked like my mother; he looked like _me._ His black curls framed his face at less of a length than mine did, but they shaped the same. His nose sloped like mine, his jaw rounded smoothly until a powerful lilt to the chin. He had an easy, gentle smile, expressive eyebrows. While I looked at least a little feminine, there was only one huge difference between us: his eyes pierced mine like sharpened sapphires, and they were absolutely huge. And perhaps my face was a little longer than his, but not much, and my neck a little finer, but again, not by a noticeable margin.

Father set Frodo on the floor with a proud expression, and the boy skittered right to me. "Bixbite!" he cried, wrapping his arms solidly around my legs. I stumbled back with the impact, and with my own uncertainty. For courtesy's sake I lowered my hand to his frail little shoulders and patted his back. Leastwise, I expected them to be frail for his size, but there were obvious muscles there. I jolted in place; I hadn't anticipated him to be a hard worker of any kind.

"Bixbite?" Two echoes of sniggers rose behind me, and Frodo glanced around me. I turned as well, only to see the two little boys from earlier hiding behind the door.

Frodo's expressive little eyebrows narrowed, sharply for a boy his age. "Pippin, Merry, you should be ashamed of yourselves. She's my cousin, and I hope you respect her like you should."

I blinked the shock out of my face as the two other boys raced away, leaving the door slightly ajar in their hurry. Their flight didn't surprise me; Frodo had such a solemn glare on his face that quickly lifted as he turned again to me. His smile warmed me, and he patted my arm. "Don't worry about them, Bixbite; they like to tease everybody."

Another voice, perhaps just older than Frodo, sounded from the stairs.

"Mr. Frodo!" another boy called. I recognized that voice, although I couldn't place where from. "Mr. Frodo, I have all your stuff!" A larger lad wandered down the stairs, and I recognized his sandy, almost-red hair right off: Samwise Gamgee. I used to watch him work outside with his Gaffer, and while I loved rain more than sun, I sometimes found myself wanting to join them. Sam was only nine years younger than I, at twenty-one or so. For being so young he had great resilience, and was very loyal.

Sam lowered a great trunk from his back onto the ground, and wiped his hands before glancing up. When he saw me his eyes widened, and his cheeks turned bright pink.

"Miss Bixbite," he muttered, bowing. Frodo laughed brightly and clapped his friend's shoulder; I resisted laughing myself at the sweet gesture, but managed to curtsy to Sam.

"Master Gamgee," I replied.

He shook his head wildly. "No, Frodo and Bilbo are masters, Miss; I'm just a gardener."

"But a good one; you are a master of your trade," Frodo insisted. Then he whirled back to his sack and removed a clutch of bright yellow roses. He raced back to my side and held them out to me, suddenly child-like again. "Sam said these were your favorite! We picked them for you this morning."

I smiled down at the lad; I did indeed love yellow roses, although white ones were actually my favorites. I glanced up at Sam and thanked them both. Sam shuffled on his feet, muttering something about it would have been Mr. Frodo's idea anyway.

We spent afternoon tea there; Sam sat by Frodo, as far away from me as possible, and I wondered at the poor dear's nervousness: surely I didn't scare him that much. But Frodo was more than excited—he and Father chatted constantly, mostly about poetry and travel. Eventually, while I quietly chewed my cake, Father told his stories about his magical ring and the dragon Smaug. Frodo had apparently heard this before, because he gasped just before something traumatic happened, and sometimes finished Father's sentences.

About when he began asking questions of me, the lady from earlier popped her head in; Merry and Pippin raced around her and began bouncing around Frodo, urging him to come eat the mushrooms they pilfered. The woman ignored them and motioned us inside for dinner.

Beyond the little kitchen—with dozens of dishes stacked up ready to be washed—sat a great, round table, with seats for perhaps fifty or sixty people. Dinner blurred past me; I sat between Father and Frodo, and the lad chatted with me all through the meal. He had such a curious and bright nature, and periodically would say something that, for his age, took my breath away, something poetic or profound. He knew words well, and he had this innate wisdom about life. And while it only encompassed what he'd already experienced, he had learned so much.

Sam, Frodo, Father, and I walked home after dinner. Thankfully I wasn't pressured to talk to them on that walk; Father took care of it all, excitedly chatting with Frodo about his adventures and the adventures Frodo wanted to go on someday. To be frank, it reignited my wanderlust . . . my desire to get out of the Shire and see what lay beyond the borders.

But that desire was intermittent. I only had the opportunity to feel that way when I was alone and deep inside the hole; whenever I caught a glimpse outside I remembered why I loved the Shire so much, and why I hadn't left yet in spite of Father's yearnings to go traveling as he had in his younger years.

We dropped Sam off at Gaffer's, and he muttered a parting word to me on his way out. He still had that blush on his face, and I asked Frodo if anything was wrong with him. My cousin just shrugged.

"He doesn't do that very much. I don't know why he's blushing." He paused, perhaps about to continue, but instead turned and walked straight into the hole. I followed him, suddenly remembering that we were about to change the way the house ran, that things would never be the same.

With a heavy heart I watched Frodo and Father discuss where he would sleep. Father set Frodo's trunk down in the middle of the floor, then surveyed the living room.

"Well, Bixbite," he said, "what do you think? I was considering putting Frodo in the guest room, until I remembered I got rid of the guest room and made it my study." He tsked to himself with a slight chuckle. "And I'm sure you wouldn't be one to give up your bedroom . . ."

With the way he trailed off, however, I was certain he wanted me to do just that. I crossed my arms and surveyed the little cousin. His gaze flicked from me to Father and back. He said, "Uncle Bilbo, I can sleep out here on the couch."

Father sputtered uncertainly for a second, and Frodo sent me a pleading look. I glanced back up at Father.

"He would fit well on the couch," I said, then regretted my words immediately. But I had to let it pass, because Frodo continued his case, sweetly persisting that he be allowed to sleep out here. Father appeared hesitant, but after running through his other options (including putting me on the couch), he reluctantly agreed.

Frodo embraced him, then me, and raced off to get ready for bed. I sank onto the great red chair by the fire, Father's chair, although I didn't realize it at first. I braced my forehead in one hand.

"Don't you like him, Bixbite?" Father asked. I thought perhaps to slip into Father's evident fear that lined his voice, perhaps the distrust that conflict would spring up in the household between me and Frodo. The Baggins home would perhaps fall apart if that happened, for Father would be helpless.

I sighed and sat back. "I think he is a sweet lad," I said, "but I still must adjust to the idea that he will have my inheritance." I crossed my arms. "I will do my best to care for him as you do,"—at this my gaze flickered to the bunch of ripe, golden roses in my lap—"but give me time. Please."

Father nodded. "I understand." He smiled. "You're sitting in my chair, Bixbite."

I offered a sorrowful smile. "I suppose I'll be changing every bit as much as you have."

That took him aback for a second; he leaned forward then and kissed my forehead before turning to bed. "Goodnight, my sweet girl."

Frodo trotted up to my side right after that and pecked my cheek. "Goodnight, sweet girl," he chirped, scampering off to the couch. He slipped over the cushions, and I realized he didn't have a blanket or pillow.

"Frodo," I started.

His huge, crystal gaze turned to me, and I swallowed a lump in my throat. Thus far the child was the picture of perfection in a hobbit lad, regardless his age, and I wondered if I would ever measure up.

I threw aside my uncertainty and gestured for him to follow me down the hall. "I have some blankets for you. Come."

Frodo trotted along behind me, and we ducked into my bedroom, right next to Father's study. I lowered my roses into a crystal vase on an oak table beside my bed and lit the candle on my desk. I lifted a spare blanket or two from within the folds of my closet as well as a pair of pillows, in case he needed two of either. I led him back out to the couch and spread one of the blankets over the cushions.

I turned to my room once again as soon as Frodo slipped under the blanket and the fires were all out. I wished him a good night and crept into my own bed, tired and not ready to dwell on tomorrow.

Only a few minutes passed before I heard the distant rumble of thunder outside.

 _Here we go,_ I thought to myself. I didn't sleep well with thunderstorms, in part because of fascination and in part because of fear, but regardless the amount of both in the mix, I knew I wouldn't be able to rest well tonight.

I remained exhausted, anticipating the growing storm. For a few minutes I didn't hear anything, and then a great crash of lighting and thunder split the air. I coughed back a scream and settled in bed, but my heart continued to race at the sudden shock. Rain drummed down outside, over the hill with a dampened patter.

Amidst the rain, and just after another bang of thunder, a whisper pierced the air.

"Bixbite."

I shot up in bed, staring at the doorway. The door was open, and I shivered in place.

"Who's there?" I called out, trembling in spite of myself. Lightning flashed, and it revealed Frodo standing just inside my door. He trembled like a leaf.

"Bixbite . . ."

My shoulders slumped with the loss of adrenaline. "Frodo, you shan't scare me like that," I chided gently.

He nodded. "I understand." The poor thing sounded about ready to crack, and he turned to leave the room, but I leaped up from bed and scrambled over to him before he could.

"What is it?"

Frodo bit his lip, searching for words. "I don't like storms," he said at last. "Could I stay with you?"

I paused, glancing at the bed. It had only been built for one, but Frodo looked small enough to fit. I gestured him over to my bed, but he waited until I slipped in and held the blanket up for him to join me inside. He shuffled under, curling hard in a ball by my side. Although it initially surprised me, I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed him close as the storm raged outside.

Somehow having the little lad in my arms helped me to sleep, as though he were comforting me instead of the other way around. In fact, he even started singing.

"In the face of darkness I shall give you rest." He yawned around his own words, his sweet voice filling the night air and soothing the harsh pressure of the storm. "I'll love you even when you leave my nest . . . Sleep softly, my little bird . . . Heed no storm, only my word . . ." Within moments his lungs swelled and released under my hand.

I knew that song. Father sang it to me when I was younger, said the Old Took's wife wrote it, and that it passed down through their lines wherever they went. Seeing as Frodo was my cousin, I shouldn't have been surprised that he knew it.

I hummed the rest of it, something about wherever you fly in the skies above, always recall my love. Something like that.

When I finished, Frodo smiled and snuggled against my side.

"'Night, Mum," he murmured under his breath, but he was talking in his sleep.

I sighed and squeezed the child close. I, too, knew what it was like to lose a mother. And while I'd never lost a father, thus far this boy had helped me far more than I'd helped him.


	3. Years Like Dandelions

**Diem Kieu: Thanks so much! X) That makes me happy. Awwww; that's the nicest thing anybody's said to me all day. :D I hope you continue to enjoy the story! DFTYA!**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Yeaaaaah! :D Thanks! I hope this gets even better for you; I kind of like this story, but it is really weird later on. :D**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: Pretty much. :P I had wanted Bix to inherit when I first started writing the story, but I felt like that would be an anachronism. Sorry about that. -.o Awww, thank you! I'll keep going, then. :D**

After a few weeks of letting Frodo sleep with me, I realized soon he would be too large to do it. The years slipped away like dandelion seeds at the hands of the resolute Gamgees; seemingly in the blink of an eye, Frodo was suddenly the age Sam had been when I met him, and it was long time for him to have a bedroom of his own. He begged Father to let him sleep on my floor, until Father explained that, regardless of how tightly knit we were as a family, it could not be done. Frodo reluctantly accepted to sleep in Father's room, where another bed had been set up in the past year.

But those seven years were full of memories and adventures that cannot go without mention: the first is learning to enjoy the company of Frodo's friends. I'd never truly explored the concept of friendship before, and it was strange to adjust.

Some two months after Frodo moved in, Pippin and Merry arrived from Buckland to invite him for a mushroom theft. Somehow he was still prone to those after all he'd learned and been through. While he prepared to get ready (I confess I didn't know it was a planned mushroom theft until later on), Merry cautiously walked up to me and asked if my name really was Bixbite.

I nodded, uncertain why that didn't make sense.

Pippin chuckled. "Do you bite? Is it like . . . pixie-bite? Are you a pixie?"

"Heavens, no!" I managed. "A bixbite is a red gem that the dwarves use."

"You sound like Frodo," Merry pointed out. "Frodo likes to talk about the outside; my mum says he's strange."

"They also say Master Bilbo is strange too," Pippin added.

"Can we call you Bite for short?"

I admit, by this time I felt perplexed and overly stimulated by outside matters and personalities that I didn't understand. Subsequently I didn't exactly respond to their question before Frodo darted in, a serious glint in his young eyes.

"Peregrine and Meriadoc," he said sternly. They both lifted to attention, and he stepped up to my side. He took my hand. "She has a beautiful name. I'd ask you not to gossip, especially not about her or my uncle. Go step outside; I'll be right there."

They skittered out the front door, right off of the solemnity and right back to their characteristic fidgeting. They slipped out, and Sam slipped in. Frodo lifted his hand from mine and patted my shoulder.

"I don't want them calling you Bite," he said, once again actually sounding close to his age. "Can I convince them to call you Bix?"

"Oh, please!" Sam blurted. Frodo and I both turned to him; he turned soft pink again. "No disrespect, but Pippin and Merry keep bringing it up, and I don't think it's right of them to call you Bite."

I smiled a little at their persistence and nodded. Frodo squeezed me and wished me a good day, then sprang out the door. Sam didn't go with him, but I'd been expecting him to, so I turned away to slip back into my bedroom and get some writing done.

But his feet shuffled behind me, and I turned back to him.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Gamgee?"

Sam cleared his throat and sidled up to me. He removed a red rose from behind his back.

"Gaffer said I could bring it over," he said, blushing heavily. His gaze didn't meet mine as I accepted the flower. "We didn't have any yellow ones . . . they just grow over in Buckland."

I chuckled lightly. "Thank you, Sam. And thank your Gaffer too; it's very beautiful."

Sam bowed to me and scurried away.

Father grew antsier over the years, and Frodo grew more protective. In spite of the wonderful people that surrounded me on a constant basis . . . I admitted to myself at last that of all the company I enjoyed, I adored Sam's the most. He would bring me flowers every time, and while he began in blushing in my presence, I soon grew anxious and hopeful in his. I found my gaze wandering to his hazel eyes, his powerful but humble feet, his strong arms and hands that tenderly coaxed the growth out of the most delicate flower. I found in my conversations with him that he loved anything beautiful, anything hopeful and bright. By pursuing those things, he became one in my eyes.

The lads all grew tall. I was done growing by the time I turned twenty-five, but now, as I entered my late thirties, they grew up. Sam topped me only by an inch or two, and Frodo grew almost seven inches taller than I.

I waited, then, to watch the younger generation court: I always thought my hopes for a romantic or domestic life were hopeless—partially for the undying dream to travel—and wanted to see what they did. While Pippin and Merry were very active and spontaneous, Frodo dated only sporadically and never really got interested in any girls. I was almost grateful; no lass out there deserved _my_ cousin.

But Sam . . . Sam perplexed me. I never saw him with a lass in all those years, not once. The moment he came of age, when I turned forty-two, I asked Frodo.

"Why does he not court?"

Frodo turned an ostensibly dramatic gaze to the front door, but something true lingered in his eyes. "But alas, the fair Rosie Cotton is the focal point of his affections." Frodo clapped a hand over his heart, and I caged a laugh. "And she has many suitors already!"

I dropped it at that. In spite of the fact that Rosie was very beautiful and very kind to me, I found myself just a little jealous. I watched for Sam eyeing her, and once in a while I caught a glimpse. Whenever I did, however, I forced myself to stop: this was ridiculous. He could choose whatever lass he wanted, and he would never choose me, I knew.

Thus the circumstances of Father's eleventy-first birthday coalesced. I'd turned forty-nine earlier that year, a respectable age for actually having a life to live, which I didn't. I yearned to travel the world; since coming of age I wandered the extent of the Shire, speaking to Elves and dwarves and all sorts of fascinating creatures. The roads were too familiar to me; I had every tree, every river, it seemed, memorized. I wanted to know what lay beyond the borders of my perfectly green little globe, experience what no hobbit ever had before, much less what I hadn't . . . see the mountains and plains that bore tantalizing tales of old, rivers of grandeur and manifestations of legends.

That expressed, Father's eleventy-first birthday—as is well known—coincided with Frodo's coming-of-age. I determined to keep an eye out for the lad. I'd seen many a lass pursuing him, although he was completely oblivious every time they would flirt with him. Some were remarkably aggressive about it, and then perhaps he would notice, but I would usually step in to save him from embarrassment.

I feared for the Master of Bag End.

The party began about as you would expect: I sat at a party table and did not dance, did not drink, just ate calmly. Graceful, young dancers whirled and twirled around me. The young ladies immediately gravitated to Frodo, who looked rather dashing (for a cousin) in his bronze chintz vest and a loose white shirt that framed his shoulders well. I only noticed because I tried to see in him what other lasses did, and I worried on his behalf.

But even as I sat pondering, I heard someone timidly clear his throat behind me. I whirled around, only to find Samwise standing there, that characteristic, adorable blush on his face. He was forty now, a decent age. I never realized how close he could seem to my own age, but now it seemed—seeing Frodo just coming of age—that perhaps he and I were comparable.

Not that he could ever see it that way. I couldn't hope he would ever see me the way I wished, the way I viewed him, as my best friend—albeit, I admitted to myself, a best friend that somehow made me shiver when he approached, and made me fear that he I would never be good enough.

"Sam," I said with a bright smile. "Come, sit down."

"Thank you, Miss Bix." He swallowed and sat some inches away from me, then hesitated and adjusted himself closer, then briefly surveyed my expression and settled farther away again. He shuffled in place once he sat himself down, and I reached over to clap his shoulder. He jolted when I touched him.

"Sam, it's all right," I assured him.

He shuffled back with a muttered reply, and I leaned forward to pick it up from him. Just then Frodo leaped into place by his side and gestured out into the party. Frodo's lungs heaved, and sweat gathered at his forehead. He swiped it away quickly.

"Go on, Sam!" Frodo cried joyously. "Ask Rosie to dance!" He gestured to the lovely lass, who twirled away then from a tongue-tied suitor. But as I surveyed Frodo, I noted a hint of pining, and my gaze sharpened on him.

Sam's brow furrowed, and he blushed harder. "Mr. Frodo, I have no cares to court Miss Cotton; I finished that five years ago."

I paused, realizing I had two outlets now: if Sam was available I could reach for him, and perhaps Frodo himself fancied Miss Cotton.

"In fact, Frodo," I said hintingly, "I'm fairly sure _you_ ought to ask Rosie Cotton for a dance." I turned a wink to Sam, and he chuckled by my side.

Frodo blanched, biting his lower lip. Before he could possibly think up a reply, I tossed my head at Rosie, and when she saw me she trotted over. Frodo buried his jaw in his hand; Sam strained not to laugh at my side as Rosie sweetly asked what she could do for me.

I gestured to my distraught cousin. "Why, Rosie, I'm afraid my cousin is left without a partner for this dance." I kept my voice low. "Would you be so kind as to take him for one? I hear he's a wonderful dancer."

Rosie flushed almost imperceptibly, and my gaze flicked between them. Somehow I managed to get caught in love triangles, situations where people would often blush, but I didn't mind: I'd found a spot for Frodo. It wasn't lack of confidence or interest on her part—she probably had never given him a second glance in all the work that she did and all the people vying for her attention.

"Why, of course," she said cheerfully. She turned to Frodo, and he attempted to stammer a response. Sam nudged him from behind, standing him up—Frodo nearly smacked into her, but caught her by the arm before she could initially fall back. His face grew heated, and I stifled a chuckle.

He took a second to regain his composure, then took her hand and bowed over it. "I would be honored to dance with you, Miss Cotton." As he led her away, I strained to hear her response, but got nothing out of it. Soon they danced, lively and likely nervous.

"Look at them, Sam," I smiled. "Don't they seem so happy, though?"

Sam nodded, then shuffled in place for a minute. His gaze leaped, distracted, around the party field.

"Sam?" I asked. "Are you all right?"

He nodded again, more urgently this time, and fidgeted again. Finally he blurted, "Would you like to dance, Miss Bix?"

I blinked uncertainly, about to say no; I'd never danced before and never truly cared to learn. But he seemed to guess I would refuse, and suddenly looked put out. I realized then that perhaps he'd been fidgeting to work up the courage, and maybe it was harder than I knew.

"I would love to, Sam," I said, but even as he reached to take my hand I held it up. "But I have no idea how to dance."

"I can teach you!" Sam said hopefully. Before I could even think to protest, he reached for my hand again and pulled me off the bench. It amazed me just what a hopeful creature he was, to jump on any opportunity and not pick it apart. Unlike Frodo and me, he didn't take things for granted.

Sam gently guided me through a basic swing step, soon coaxing me into the overall circle in spite of my assurances that I wasn't going to be advanced enough. I probably stepped on his feet a couple of dozen times, although I enjoyed myself more than I thought I could. Sam guided me through my initial nervousness, and not only taught me how to dance that night, but how to find the good in situations I never really enjoyed. In this case, I thought by the time we were done dancing that I understood the happiness he showed me. But as I soon learned, time and time again, I always took Samwise Gamgee for granted.

By the time we were finished, my breath heaved from the energized movement, and I stopped for some water, Sam for a little ale. We sat at the party table I'd selected earlier, and to my amusement we watched the aftermath of Frodo's compromising circumstances: now Rosie, in spite of all those flocking her, stood patiently at the edge of the dancing ring whilst lasses crowded Frodo. He danced with each briefly, but his gaze continually flicked back to Rosie.

I shook my head. "But alas, finally the fair Rosie's heart has been stolen."

"Aye, indeed it has." In spite of Sam's attempt to perhaps sound calm or excited, his voice trembled. I didn't turn to look at him; that would only make him more nervous.

After a few minutes of continual observation, however, a gentle warmth crept across my shoulders, then started to retreat, then more firmly slipped into place. Sam's fingers twitched against my arm opposite him, and after I didn't refuse his touch he squeezed me softly.

I admit, I didn't quite know how to react. My gaze flickered away from him, down to his fingers that had been nervous, but as the minutes passed came to caress my arm. I had no way to really respond, save reach up and touch his hand, but that caused him to jolt.

"Sam," I whispered, turning to him. I confess my cheeks burned hot enough to bake bread, and only warmed when I suddenly turned to find his face closer than I had realized it would be. His hazel eyes trapped my gaze, and in spite of the uncanny shortage of distance I found myself wanting not to back away. In fact, the longer I lingered, the more I wanted to close the gap, feel him.

His eyes flickered over my face. "Yes, Bix?"

I reached up to my arm, my muscles shoving me through some kind of murk to do it. I squeezed his fingers and nestled my head against his shoulder; I couldn't really describe how I felt in that moment. Only later did I recognize that I felt loved, and actually worth more than just a prop for Frodo to look after once Father moved on or an eccentric Baggins lass. I realized in that moment, however, that whatever I noticed about my relationship with Sam was only the tip of the iceberg for what I truly felt.

"Thank you," I murmured.

The dancing and music swirled around us as Sam held me, but the moment Frodo was dancing with Rosie again Sam released me and stood. He offered his hand; he trembled again. I missed that tender warmth immediately and accepted his hand to have it back.

"Bix, there's something I have to tell you," he managed as he brought me to my feet. "Alone."

I paused, about to tell him that we were alone, but perhaps he desired more privacy even than this. I nodded for him to lead the way, and he directed me into a little clutch of trees behind the party field. We were just out of sight, not enough that he could harm me (far be it from Sam to harm anyone) but enough that if he wanted to say something Pippin and Merry wouldn't get obnoxious about it.

Sam held up a hand, then reached around one of the trees and removed a huge bouquet of roses, with various blossoms of other kinds scattered through it. I recognized every flower; he'd shown his flower garden to me some three years back, and asked me what my favorites were: all were included there, even though some were rather out of season. They didn't look as bright and healthy, but that didn't matter so much to me, knowing he had remembered them all.

I accepted them from him, still searching the bouquet for everything I loved. "Thank you, Sam," I breathed. "It's beautiful."

Sam laid a gentle hand atop the flowers, lowering them from my face. He swallowed, bracing my cheek in one hand, and leaned forward. I stiffened, and my mouth slacked open with surprise as he quickly pecked my cheek. Although after the initial moment that he backed away, he seemed to surge with confidence and kissed my cheek affectionately. I shifted slightly in place, but that same confidence spread to me with the realization that I cared about him. The flowers fell forgotten to the ground, and I wrapped my arms around his neck.

"Oh, Sam!" I whispered. Tears pricked at my eyes as I scrambled to hold him tighter.

Sam didn't let go for a long moment, and I felt a little indulgent, resting peacefully in his strong, soft grasp. I felt so shielded, so protected, so wanted . . . and not only wanted, but wanted by someone that I already cared for. I'd never felt this way before.

While he held me, Sam spoke. His voice choked, although he restrained it nicely. "Miss Bix, would you be my lass? Could I please court you?"

I released him and nodded emphatically. "Of course!" I reached up and caressed his jaw, unable to grasp the magnitude of what had just happened. In spite of my small body, my low voice, my lack of society, my lack of inheritance, my Sam wanted me. I repeated that to myself: _my_ Sam. "I am yours," I finished, my voice trailing off. I had never considered to kiss him before, but now his lips and the potential caress of them were all too inviting. I'd never been interested before, generally speaking . . . and it shocked me just how much I needed this touch that I knew absolutely nothing about.

Even as I leaned up to him, his timidity—as stark as my own—reassured me that neither of us, mature as we were age wise, knew what we were doing. His lips met off-center to mine uncertainly, and in spite of the fact that it was not deep or smooth, the contact sent tremors through my spine, and when he pulled away my eyes stayed closed. I couldn't for sanity's sake throw the tender moment from my mind, and that contact ran through my head multiple times. My eyelids cracked open, and I grabbed Sam's shirt collar, bringing him back to kiss me again. While we were no more skilled, at least we knew some part of this, and the kiss came softer, from him and from me. Sam sighed, wrapping his arms around my waist and holding me a little closer.

We broke apart at last.

"I was waiting for that."

Sam jumped, and I whirled around: Frodo stood at one tree, flicking his calculating, excited gaze from me to Sam to the flowers on the ground.

"Dare I say, Sam, that it took you long enough to get this far?" Frodo chuckled. He stood from his relaxed stance against the tree and scooped the flowers off the ground, handing them to me. "I would have thought you two married by now."

I coughed, and Sam abruptly blushed. Frodo waited for a reply, but shook his head when I suppose he realized neither of us were in any position to speak.

He clapped Sam's shoulder. "I suppose I mean to say that I'm proud of you. Both of you." He turned his gaze to me, then back to his friend. "Take good care of her. And if you're just waiting for Bilbo to retire stewardship, know that you have my blessing."

"Thank you, Frodo," I managed at last. He reached for my hand and squeezed it with a gentle smile; I could see myself reflected in his eyes for once. Perhaps he thought me worth something.

"Come," he said at last. "It is time for Bilbo's speech."


	4. Chaos in His Wake

**EtheGoldenSnitch: Awwww, thank you! :) That gives me warm fuzzies. I hope you enjoy! I hope you liked the kissing scene. :D**

 **Diem Kieu: Happy birthday! I mean . . . Valentine's Day! X) I wish I could give you a Frodo juice-bomb, but I don't have one yet. :/ Especially when he's so sweet. He makes me happy. :} Right back at ya! DFTYA!**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: :D I'm so glad you ship! That'll make this story so much better. XD Well, but Bix . . . yeah, it'll be exciting. I hope. O.o**

I knew from the day before that Father was planning to disappear as a joke—but it wasn't until he looked into my eyes and whispered "good-bye" that I realized the rest of his hinting at plans was no joke. He told me he wanted a holiday . . . a permanent one. I planned to run home after him, but Frodo and I were swarmed by guests with questions. I answered to all of them that things would all be revealed in good time, that there wasn't anything to worry about, and handed them all off to Frodo before racing up to the front door.

I stepped inside, only to find Gandalf smoking thoughtfully by the fireplace. "He's gone, hasn't he?" I sighed. "I was hoping he simply meant it as a joke, but I suppose he needed to leave." I knew with Gandalf to be anything less than assertively practical would be to irritate him.

Gandalf glanced up. "Hello, Bixbite." He glanced behind me. "Frodo."

I turned just enough to see Frodo as he softly stepped up behind me. He affectionately squeezed my shoulders, then glanced up at the wizard, who gestured to the mantle.

"Frodo, there is an envelope of deeds and legal documents for you. Bixbite, your father has given Frodo permission to bequeath to you anything he wishes, but has left his ring under your custody."

"His ring?" My brow furrowed. "I wonder why on earth—perhaps someday it shall prove useful." I reached up to locate it, but the moment I reached for the envelope of the two on the mantle addressed to me, Gandalf stood.

"Not yet, Bixbite," he scolded. I flinched away from the envelope, not taking my gaze from him. "Await instructions on the ring. It is magical, as you have noted, and I would ask that you not use it unless you know it is safe, or necessary."

I nodded slowly. "I will take your advice, but I must assert that I still do have last charge over the ring," I pointed out.

Gandalf waved it aside and began arranging the house and various other technical things with Frodo. I left them to bid the guests a good night, assuming all of them were willing to leave now. Most were drunk or giddy by this point, and as I let them out the front gate they stumbled about, and were wonderfully lenient.

Most were gone by the time the party field was quiet again, and I turned to go inside for the night. I rubbed my forehead; again, another late birthday night, perhaps 2:00 or so. I only hoped Frodo wouldn't keep up this tradition, if anything at least send all the hobbits home a little earlier.

The moment my fingers left my forehead, I noticed Sam, Rosie, Pippin, Merry, and two or three other young hobbits cleaning up bits of the party field. I approached them.

"Pay it no mind," I said. Rosie and Pippin looked up, but the rest kept going. "Please," I persisted, "go get some sleep. We'll be back to do this tomorrow afternoon, and we'll have a great deal more help. I've already asked some of the party members to come back and assist."

Pippin and Merry raced off, thanking me briefly. I thanked them for coming, but they were already long gone before I could really say anything. Some of the others bowed and curtsied to me, not vocal about it but obviously glad to get to bed. Rosie bid me a good night, and after a brief hesitation admitted that she wished the Masters of Bag End a good night as well. As she turned away my eyebrow shot straight up; perhaps she did fancy my cousin. I could only hope—she was trustworthy at least, perfect for him at best.

I turned last of all to Sam. I couldn't contain my smile; somehow I felt my future was before me. I could almost see the next few years, certain Sam would be a part of me. It gave me even greater hope to see him reflecting that happiness back to me.

He embraced me gently, holding me close. "Good night, Miss Bix." I nestled against his shoulder affectionately, and he froze for a moment. Of course, Sam would take longer to adjust to this for his overall timidity, but I already felt at home. I waited until I felt claustrophobic to pull back, then reached up and eased my lips against his. Sam kissed me back, at first uncertain, but then I broke it and kissed him again. He shivered, likely from apprehension. For me, it was just a channel of affection; I did not fear it, nor did I fear him.

Luckily enough for me, Sam would never let things get out of hand, and I trusted him. But I knew not to invade him, either, and so released him when I felt we were still safe. I stepped back slowly, and he squeezed my hand. His eyes had a dizziness to them, certainly, but he enjoyed it, I knew. I turned and trotted back up to Bag End, my insides fluttering. I was never much an emotional creature, and so did not squeal as perhaps other girls might have done after being single all their lives and being kissed by the most wonderful creature in the Shire.

I slipped quietly into Bag End. Frodo stood in the corner, his arms crossed and a huge grin spread across his face.

"It's high time you thought Sam a good kisser, Bix."

I did not have to blush, and therefore didn't. I completely confessed, for Frodo would not mind. Besides, he was in charge of the hole now, and had already given Sam permission to court me. They were best friends; I doubted anything could ever come between them, especially me.

"Oh, certainly," I said, doing my best not to sigh and glance out the window; perhaps Sam hadn't left eyesight yet. But I suddenly flicked my gaze back to Frodo and allowed a grin to creep over my face. As I'd guessed, his expression grew a little apprehensive. I slowly approached him, dragging my toes on the ground. "But now I wonder . . . is Miss _Cotton_ a good kisser, Frodo?"

I'd never seen him blush, and was surprised not to now. His jaw dropped, and he abruptly pivoted on his heel and strode towards his bedroom.

"Come now, Frodo," I called after him. "Don't tell me that dance went so horribly!"

His response trembled with embarrassment. "Sleep well, Bix!"

I chuckled quietly to myself and found myself slipped into bed, after preparing the house for the night. I nestled against my mattress, and thought continually of Sam. I couldn't get him out of my mind, and I'm sure any who have been through a similar situation have felt the same. I let my mind wander, considering perhaps that I had a better future than I thought before.

A knock sounded at my bedroom door; I hoped (but knew better) that it was Sam, but Frodo stepped in carefully then. He knelt down beside my bed, cupped my jaw, and affectionately pecked my cheek.

"Good night, my sweet girl," he whispered, squeezing my shoulders. I smiled in spite of myself.

"Thank you, Frodo."

He sat on my bed and held me for a minute. I didn't quite understand until he spoke: "I know you wish Bilbo had stayed. I'm going to miss him too; but Bix, I'm going to look after you. I promise."

How he knew I missed Father enough to mention anything, I'll never know. I let out a soft sigh, allowed him to hold me a moment longer before I admonished him to bed. He gave me another sympathetic look before closing my door behind him.

I fell asleep quickly after that, thank goodness; I didn't feel ready to think about the next day.

~0~

Frodo read Father's will a little more closely, with Gandalf looking on. I spent my time that morning getting the garden ready for Sam, but the moment they were finished arranging the will Frodo poked his head out the window and called me inside. I turned my head down the walk, and could see Gaffer waiting at the front door of his home. Sam would probably emerge soon.

But not soon enough, I realized. I slipped up from the garden, which was slightly muddy from the night before, and brushed flecks of mud from my knees. Gandalf bellowed my name, and I raced inside.

I apparently had been deaf or blind the whole time (perhaps just thinking about Sam): I had to dodge a train of hobbits waiting to go inside, and scattered individuals walking out with various labeled items.

"Bix, can you grab Mr. Proudfoot?" Frodo called out. He sounded distressed, and I immediately searched for a Mr. Proudfoot. I had a vague idea of what the man looked like from the night before, and when I found him slinking along the side of the house with Father's best set of candlesticks as well as their candles in hand, I grabbed him by the shoulder. I couldn't drag him back; he protested against me, insisting he'd heard the house was giving free things away. Merry emerged from my house a few minutes later and helped me shove Mr. Proudfoot back inside.

Once I actually managed to stop my head from spinning, I realized there were hobbits marching around, poking into all corners of the house. Frodo had to put some Sancho (I cannot recall much about him) in a headlock to get him out of the basement. It was a long, messy process, but we finally kicked everyone out.

Merry made some tea, bless his soul, as Frodo and I rested on the couch. My inner angst was soothed when I heard Sam cutting the grass outside. Frodo must have noticed my grin in spite of his exhaustion, for he leaned up from his slouch against the couch arm and nudged me.

"I give you every right to distract him; just don't let him cut himself on his own shears."

I immediately thought up a retort before I could possibly shame myself. "Did Rosie get swept inside with that great big horde? You should have given her the chocolate in the pantry, and the roses from the garden." He opened his mouth, and I stopped him. "And a declaration of love in your will, with a signature on it too."

He still didn't blush, just sank back into the couch and shook his head.

"Bix . . . your desire to look out for me is impeccable," he said.

I grinned cheekily at him. "Why, thank you. Until you are settled with either Rosie or some other incredibly amazing lass, I shall not rest and neither shall you."

"But I have something to fall back on," he reminded me. "I could become a bachelor. But every lovely young lady is charged with being married at some time or other."

"Well, where do you think the term 'spinster' ever came from?" I pointed out. "I make no guarantees on a life with Sam, and I pray you have nothing mischievous to add to my relationship with him."

Frodo shrugged. "Not thus far. Just don't let Pippin and Merry know, and I'll refrain from doing anything obnoxious." He glanced outside, and I forced myself not to follow his gaze: I assumed he could see Sam. And I didn't doubt he would end up doing a thousand little things that I found unnecessary—or perhaps irritating depending on how devious they were—and never know I thought the worse of them.

"Well?" Frodo cut off my thoughts about the future. "Aren't you going to go greet him?"

I glanced up at Sam, and almost smiled watching him tenderly scatter a few seeds in the patch of mud I'd created by removing weeds. But then an approaching cart caught my eye.

"Frodo, get out of here," I said. "Go to the gate where you met Gandalf yesterday." Frodo opened his mouth to ask. "You curious creature, get out of here! I'll explain later," I hissed.

Frodo leaped out the front door when he realized I was serious, and he broke away down the road. I sucked in an apprehensive breath as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins approached, a sour smirk on her face while she drew her carriage up to the front walk of Bag End.

I shuddered to myself, trying to determine how I would shove my way through all this when she knocked loudly. I rose up from the couch after a moment of reluctance, but Merry already leaped to the door. For a moment I could breathe, until the door opened, allowing in the stinging autumn sun and Lobelia's dark expression.

She marched right past Merry; apparently she had come in earlier, looking for Frodo, and she confronted me about him, insisting it wasn't his inheritance, and she had the nearest male heir to Father. She ranted about being given nothing more than a few spoons in the will, how foolish it was to leave me at home and not get me married sooner, and the insolence of Bagginses that weren't even Bagginses, but Tooks and Brandybucks.

But the moment she started raving about Father's "foolish" decision to get married and Frodo's character, I knew I didn't want to hear it. I stood abruptly from the couch.

"Mrs. Sackville-Baggins," I said sternly. She halted to glare at me. "That is quite enough." I nodded to the door. "I appreciate your passion for Bag End, but it belongs to my cousin now. Perhaps I could be as angry at him as you are, for I would have inherited it straight from my father had he not bequeathed it to Frodo instead. But the law is written, and if you have anything poorer to say I suggest you leave."

Lobelia sniffed disapprovingly, then spun on her heel towards the door. Before she got out, she turned and stomped on the front step.

"I'm telling you, that Frodo doesn't belong here! He's not even a Baggins; he's a—a _Brandybuck_!"

I closed the door as gently behind Lobelia as I possibly could with all my irritation bubbling under my skin. I turned back to Merry, shaking my head.

"Poor, sweet Frodo," I sighed, finally releasing my anger. "That was an insult, if you like."

Merry sniffed. "No, that was a compliment. And absolutely _not_ true. If he were a Brandybuck he could see the flock of lasses right in front of his nose and know what to do with them."

I shook my head at his remark, then ducked outside to bring Frodo back. It took me a decent hour or two, but I found him by the gate where Gandalf had come in yesterday and told him it was safe. When he asked what was wrong, I told him Lobelia had been by.

Frodo's brow furrowed. He had a sweet, sympathetic glow to his face, which I didn't quite understand, but accepted for my circumstance. "I thank you, Bix, but I'm sure it wasn't pleasant to be there alone."

I snickered to myself. "I wasn't alone; I had a Brandybuck." I took some sort of pleasure in Frodo's confusion at my joke.

I led him back home, and I greeted Sam on my way in. Sam stood, flicked his gaze hesitantly between me and Frodo, bowed as he addressed us, and knelt down again. Frodo shot me a hinting glance, and I walked deliberately past him before he could say a word.

We decided to lock the front door; I told Frodo that Lobelia wanted to confront him personally, and she would probably be back in an hour or so. Sure enough, someone knocked loudly some ten minutes later. Frodo and I left it, in the hopes that Lobelia would go home. The knock came repeatedly, but was less irking than talking to her personally. Frodo almost answered it once or twice, expressing that perhaps it was overly rude of us to leave any guest outside.

He wasn't quite as antisocial as Father or me, I gathered. I told him if he'd been here when Lobelia was insulting Father and our family he wouldn't let her in . . . although I doubted the words almost as soon as I said them: Frodo certainly had more of a sense of propriety than Father or I ever did.

Finally a great smack sounded at the window.

"Frodo Baggins, if you do not let me in, I shall blow your door to the back of your hole!" Gandalf bellowed.

"Gandalf!" I cried. Frodo scampered to the front door and opened it swiftly, calling for Gandalf to come inside. He apologized profusely, explaining we thought it was Lobelia.

"You have no need to defend me, Frodo," I said, waving it aside. "He attempted to let you in, Gandalf; I apologize. I didn't realize you were out."

Gandalf snorted. "I saw Lobelia on my way here. She had an expression that could slaughter any beast."

"She almost slaughtered me," I sighed. "And the reputations of Frodo and Bilbo, I suppose; she isn't too glad to have lost inheritance."

Gandalf waved it aside. "That is not why I came," he interjected. "I have come in urgency, to tell you that I must be away."

"So soon?!" I shook my head. "Gandalf, you arrived just yesterday."

"Yes, but there are things I must see to, Bixbite." He nodded to Frodo, and after busily gathering his things, he bid us a hasty farewell and slipped out the door.

We did not see him again for seven months.


	5. Rotted Inheritance

**Jayla Fire Gal: :D Yes. Hopefully it gets more exciting! And sadly there is a lull in the romance from the 1/2 point to the ending, but it's a shorter story (roughly 64,000 words), so it shouldn't be too bad, I hope. :) Thanks so much!**

 **Diem Kieu: Right back at ya. ;) When is your next update? DFTYA!**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: Ja. O.o Thanks! :D I hope it continues to be to your liking . . . there is a point at which it is highly thematic, but that's what fantasy's for: no other genre could get away with it. XD Wormtongue or Denethor? Well . . . Wormtongue is lustful, and Denethor is son-obsessed, so I'm going to go with Denethor. :D What about you?**

During those seven months, the friendship I'd had before with Sam certainly blossomed, beyond what I ever would have guessed. Soon the flowers—from dandelions to roses to branches of apple and cherry blossoms—became rarer, but developed: once he gave me a beautiful necklace of red gems. Rubies, he told me, because we didn't have any bixbite jewelry in the Shire. He gave me a dress once, a comb at another time. I tried to buy gifts for him, but Frodo assured me that all he would want is my company and perhaps passion for his garden.

And so I did my best to repay him that way, although I never told him that was my goal: I knew he wouldn't accept repayment as an answer.

We went out often, ate together, and gardened together. I even taught him a little bit of Elvish, although he didn't catch onto it very well. We danced together sometimes.

And every night, as we approached Bag End perhaps three minutes before Frodo insisted that Sam have me home, Sam would peck me on the cheek and hold me. Then we kissed, didn't get physically carried away but did lose track of time almost every instance, and I would have to tear myself away and leap inside. Even if I did get in on time, Frodo jocosely scolded me for dallying. I would do my best not to blush, but I couldn't hold back either a sheepish smile or an embarrassed glare.

Of everyone in the Shire, Sam knew when my birthday was. It was the night before my fiftieth birthday, an important birthday, and we went to the Green Dragon. Actually, the lads all went: I snuck in to keep an eye on Rosie, see if she interacted with Frodo at all. But alas, I only ever saw them nod to each other as I watched Frodo . . . and then I turned my gaze to Rosie, and caught her staring at him more than once, more than twice.

As I walked home, my mind was cluttered with hope that perhaps Rosie would someday be the Mistress of Bag End, the position I never could have filled. Unless, of course, Father filed permission for me to marry a cousin, but Frodo was more like a brother to me now. 'Cousin' sounded so distant.

I approached the door, then realized the lights were on inside. My brow furrowed; I'd seen Frodo in the tavern. He couldn't be home this early.

I slipped inside, cautious as I glanced around. I immediately caught with my gaze Sam, leaning over the fire. He startled as I stepped inside, cleared his throat and adjusted his collar. He had on his best white shirt, classy for one of—well, according to the gossips, that I pick for lack of a better term—his station. His sleeves were rolled up, his vest of dark green was neat and fixed well.

My head slacked to one side as I studied him. "Sam . . ." I didn't know what to say. "Sam, you look wonderful."

Sam abruptly flushed, and I chuckled, walking towards him. He shuffled in place; I expected him to produce another gift from behind his back, but he just extended a hand to me.

"Thank you," he muttered, so softly I almost couldn't hear it, as though it were a cough. "You may want to sit down, Miss Bix." His voice trembled, and I almost admonished him to sit down. But I gathered I didn't want to distress him in this state, so I settled on my chair by the fire.

Sam shifted as though to move, but then froze, studying me. He braced his hand against my cheek. "Miss Bix—you're very beautiful." He bit his lip as though I would reject the compliment.

I kissed his palm, stroked his calloused, gentle thumb. "Thank you, Sam." Then my brow furrowed again. "What is it? Are you all right?"

He abruptly fell to one knee, and I sucked in a breath. I couldn't contain the flutter of my pulse, and I flattened my hand over my heart to keep the latter from bursting. Sam took my free hand in his, and lifted a golden ring topped with a bright red gem from his pocket.

"I love you, Miss Bix," Sam whispered. Tears came unbidden to my eyes, and I nodded hurriedly.

"I love you also, Sam," I managed. I shook my head. "I'm so sorry; I've never done this before."

Sam chuckled nervously. "Me neither; begging your pardon, but all I can say is what I think. I forgot all the formal stuff, what I should say, but I don't feel like that matters. Miss Bix, would you marry me? Come be my wife, garden with me, live with me?"

Before he even had his third sentence out, my head bobbed up and down excitedly, and by the time he finished I jolted in place, unable to control myself. "Yes," I whispered. "Yes, absolutely, yes!" I leaped off of the chair, landing in Sam's arms. He nearly lost his grip on the ring, and I released him long enough to accept it on my finger. In retrospect I moved too quickly, and probably scared the poor dear, but at that moment I didn't care. I pressed my lips against his; at this point I didn't think of what the gossips might have said, or how Frodo might have teased me. All I wanted was my Sam.

I might have been calmer had I not been waiting for this moment for so long, but the anticipation of this had been building up longer than I'd expected. I kissed Sam with my whole heart and my whole soul, and while I didn't know how to express what I felt completely, I could kiss him.

Sam seemed of a mind to calm me down, kissing my cheek when I released him. I squeezed him close, murmuring his name. I'd joined him, so now we were kneeling up beside each other. I didn't have words to say, and apparently neither did he. I breathed in his strong arms before the fire; we sat like that for a long time. His hand wandered to mine, and I entwined my fingers with his.

The creak of the door shattered the sweet silence, but no voice broke into the air. I didn't look up; I knew it was Frodo. He sucked in a breath and let out a satisifed sigh, and then stepped softly into the hall while we knelt there.

I smiled as I leaned against my Sam, breathing the smell of the fresh garden and blossoms from his apple tree.

After a long moment more, I whispered to him. "We should probably tell Frodo."

Sam jolted in place; he'd fallen asleep. I narrowly avoided chuckling to myself, hoping this was how he showed contentment. He nodded hurriedly and stood, not releasing my hand as he brought me easily to my feet. I thought, once we were married, that I could sit like that with him every night and tell him why I loved him, so slowly list off all the things that I thought were wonderful about him.

I knocked on Frodo's bedroom door, and heard a rustle behind it. Frodo opened the door; one of his eyebrows cocked sternly, but he couldn't keep the grin off his face.

"Come now; what have you been up to?" he said at last.

I turned to Sam, but he just blushed and glanced down. I realized it would be silly of me to put that much pressure on Sam, seeing as Frodo would be giving me away and it probably scared Sam to death to take any steps in this relationship. He'd done well enough to propose, and it was my turn to do him a good thing.

"Sam asked me to marry him," I said, trying to keep as calm as possible. Sam's pulse quickened beneath my fingers, and I squeezed his hand.

Frodo laughed, embracing Sam tightly. "This is wonderful!"

"So we have your consent?" I said, trying to sound coy but unable to hide the smirk in my voice.

Frodo backed away from Sam and shot me a jocosely exasperated look. "Bixbite, I wouldn't entrust you to anyone else." He clapped Sam's shoulder and grinned at him once again, as though unable to grasp what had just happened. "I'm sure he'll take good care of you. And I won't care to keep an eye on you; I trust you."

After a few minutes more of rejoicing, Frodo admitted Sam ought to go home and get some sleep. Before Sam left, though, we decided on a late spring wedding, May twenty-ninth. I kissed him and bid him good night before at last retiring to my room, and Frodo met me there. He sat down on my bed next to me, unable to contain a chuckle at what must have been a rather broad grin on my face.

I turned my gaze to my lap, unable to hold my own for the moment. I rarely felt so excited about anything, and I was only too glad to have something I looked forward to, a change in lifestyle after all this time. I wondered for a moment if Sam would go so far as to cross the borders of the Shire with me, and soon my mind began to wander, feeding on that desire.

Frodo squeezed my hand, and I looked up again.

"I'm happy for you," Frodo said softly. He smiled and put his arm around me, then pecked my cheek. "You're Sam's sweet girl now, aren't you?"

I shook my head. "I'm his wife and his best friend; I'm still your sweet girl."

Frodo mused over that for a moment before nodding. "You're right. And I have no doubt you and Sam will be very happy together." He shook his head. "I never thought—this is the greatest of fortunes. Perhaps all you've put up with has led to this." He paused, glancing down at my hopelessly ecstatic expression. Suddenly he grew solemn, with that glimmer of knowledge and wisdom behind his eyes that always frightened me. "Bix? I want you to remember something."

I had no response, but I suppose he wanted me to acknowledge, so I nodded for him to continue.

"I want you to remember that, no matter what goes wrong in your life, that I love you, that Bilbo loves you, and that Sam loves you. Times are rarely ever going to come where you will initially sit down and think, 'Life is perfect.' But don't give up hope. Your friends and family may soon be gone, and for one reason or another will be against you, perhaps in an attempt to protect you. But remember things will always turn out all right, no matter how awful life appears."

I didn't know why he would bring this up now, until he added (in mild jocosity): "There are going to be moments when you just want to _strangle_ something; not Sam, but he'll be the cause of it."

I laughed gently and nestled against Frodo's side. He laughed too, but I knew it would happen just as well as he did. I loved my father, I loved Frodo, and there were still moments when they irritated me, as happens in all relationships. And I knew that to truly love Sam, I would feel the same from time to time.

"Sleep well . . . Mrs. Gamgee." Frodo chuckled and stood, patting me on the back before standing. He opened the door and stepped out.

"I love you, Frodo," I said.

He murmured his reply and shut the door behind him.

~0~

The next night, I was alone at home. Pippin and Merry were drinking to Sam's health at the Green Dragon, as I had spent the entire day following Sam around: he showed up in the morning and asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, and I told him I just wanted to go wherever he would take me. We did some gardening to start, but once it got too hot Frodo paid him to take me on a carriage ride to a lake just off the Brandywine river. We cooled off there . . . had good food at the hands of Sam. I confess I was never the best at cooking, although I could manage not to burn my meals into a stupor.

I missed Sam as I sat there writing, but the journal had to be notified of my wonderful birthday, the gift Sam had given me the day before, the future I anticipated.

Just then the door flung open, and I scrambled to my feet. Gandalf raced towards me, banging his head on the rafter as he dove and grabbed my shoulders. I nearly cried out as he shook me.

"Bixbite! Where is it? Confound it all, where is it?!" he thundered.

"Where is what?!"

"The ring, girl, your ring!"

The proposal? That's why he came barging in here, looking all worried and shaking me like a barrel of stale ale. I showed him my ring, but he tossed it aside.

"Bilbo's ring, Bixbite; _Bilbo's_ ring. Where is it? You haven't put it on?"

I shook my head slowly, reaching up to the mantle. "I haven't moved it," I admitted.

Gandalf snatched the letter from me and threw it into the fire. I cried out at last; that was the only possession of my father's that I owned, and I didn't want it tarnished. I groped for the tongs, but Gandalf grabbed my arm.

"The fire isn't hot enough to harm it; don't worry," he scolded. "Now look."

I glanced down into the fire, where the envelope popped and peeled back from the ring. It seemed fine enough. Gandalf grabbed the tongs from me and proceeded to remove the ring from the fire. He peered at it for a moment before glancing up at me.

"Here, take it," he said. When I flinched back from it, he furrowed his brow. "It won't burn you."

I hesitantly held out my hand, and Gandalf dropped the ring into my palm. I shuddered at its touch; it wasn't hot, as he'd said, and it wasn't cold . . . it felt like it was reaching into me. My pulse quickened and throbbed hard at the contact, pushing something into my heart, down into my gut. I swallowed and shook the feeling away, pulling the ring from my palm. Then something on the surface caught my eye, and I peered at it.

"Can you see anything?" Gandalf asked gravely.

I peered closer. Something shuffled and prodded at the surface of the ring, as though it were tangible or liquid.

"Somewhat . . ." I shook my head. "I'm not sure." Then the prodding ceased on the surface of the ring, and an etching smoothly carved over the gold, glowing with a cold malice. "There are markings," I breathed. I peered at it; it looked like Elvish, but it was a branch of Elvish I didn't recognize, and I told Gandalf so.

Frodo and Sam walked in a few minutes later. Gandalf told them they would probably need to be outside for this conversation . . . and then paused. He motioned them inside, took the ring from me, and began to explain to them that this was the One Ring of the Dark Lord Sauron.

He continued to explain, but I suddenly had a deep churning in my gut. I grabbed at my stomach and winced; it stabbed right through, like a strained muscle in my core, then stirred and growled as though I was starved.

"Gandalf . . ."

Gandalf turned to me briefly, but when I didn't have the strength to respond he whirled back around and expressed that if Sauron ever got his hands on the Ring again, Middle Earth would fall. The wizard had set it down on the table, and I took a glance at it: the mere sight of the thing caused my stomach to lurch, and I snatched it up.

"Well, we'll never let him get it back," I insisted. "We'll hide it, speak of this to no one." I searched around the main room for somewhere safe to put it. "No one knows it's here anyway." Then I paused; why would Gandalf come back to warn me if it weren't in any danger of being discovered? It had a pretty decent hiding place up on the mantle. I turned back to him warily.

Gandalf sucked in a breath, expressed that Gollum knew where it was, and the enemy found him: Gandalf had been out these past few months searching for him, but the army of Mordor found him first.

My heart sank, and Frodo and Sam panicked. Frodo insisted that Gandalf take the Ring, and was rejected for it. Sam frantically expressed that we had to hide not the Ring, but me and Frodo. I sat down on my chair, and amidst the squabble Gandalf shot me a look.

I pocketed the Ring. Its very presence ignited a fire in my stomach . . . or just around there, it wasn't quite where I felt the pangs of hunger.

"The Ring cannot stay in the Shire," I said at last; I felt I finally understood. Gandalf nodded gravely to me. I turned to him, attempting to hide my initial pain. "What must I do?"

Gandalf scoffed. "You? No, you will not take the Ring. Frodo and Sam will."

Frodo reached for me, and I abruptly stood and backed away. "Gandalf, this is my Ring, my father's Ring; it's my responsibility, and I intend to see this whole mess taken care of."

"Bixbite, that is out of the question," Gandalf said. "You're a lady, and someone needs to stay behind and look after Bag End while these two take the Ring."

"Bix, don't endanger yourself; please," Frodo said. "It is your Ring now, and we won't take it without your consent. But Bix . . ." He bent down to my level and braced my jaw with his hand. "Sam and I don't want anything to happen to you."

 _Too late for that_ , I thought as the Ring sent another shockwave through my stomach. I winced at it . . . and then wondered if the longer I stayed in contact with the Ring, the longer this pain would go on. Although, I didn't want to endanger Sam or Frodo either. I had to do this.

But I conceded Gandalf wouldn't tell me where the Ring needed to go; I'd have to watch.

"Please," Sam said. I glanced around Frodo at him. "Give the Ring to Mr. Frodo; we'll be all right, and we'll be back in time for the wedding next month."

Frodo held out his hand, hesitant as though I would refuse, but I sighed and dropped the Ring into his palm. Frodo did not seem to shake at its presence, and I wondered if Father had the same reaction to the Ring that I had, perhaps it being a bloodline thing. I stepped reverently around Frodo and embraced Sam.

"I love you, Sam," I whispered. "I'll miss you. Be careful."

Sam's reaction was delayed, but he did wrap his arms around me too. "You be careful too, Miss Bix. I'll be back soon, I promise."

Gandalf shooed Sam out the door to go and pack his things, and told Frodo to do the same. He told him to await him at the village of Bree, in the Prancing Pony. That was all I needed to hear before I whirled away and began to pack my own bag, as lightly as I could. I imagined I would only be gone a couple of weeks at the most, and then realized how big the Shire was. I'd been all over the edge, all the way to the river, wishing I could see past the trees on the other side. I packed a little heavier, and set it down next to a walking stick by my door, as well as a free cloak that I kept out for use. I hoped they wouldn't pick up on the fact that I was going.

The wizard left that night, and told Frodo to leave first thing in the morning. I felt I put up a decent performance, wishing Frodo luck and expressing that I probably wouldn't see him in the morning. Luckily enough for me, he put the Ring back up on the mantle as I talked to him, and he told me he would wake me up just to let me say goodbye to Sam before they both left.

"Are you afraid?" I asked him before he left. I stared up at the Ring as I spoke, and my stomach churned with the memory of that stinging pressure deep down.

Frodo stepped up behind me and wrapped an arm around my waist. "A little. But Bilbo kept it for so long and didn't suffer too horribly from it." He paused. "Did he?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. He did mention something before he left, something about feeling stretched thin." My eyes sank shut; I realized part of why I wanted to take this Ring myself was to follow Father, find out where he went and what things he had seen beyond the Shire. That, and this whole crunch in my stomach; I wanted to know what it was, and I felt the Ring would never leave me alone if I just let it go now.

Frodo rubbed my shoulder. "It's only to Bree. Sam and I will be fine." He pecked my cheek. "Good night, sweet girl."


	6. The One Ring

**Jayla Fire Gal: Well, I guess this chapter answers that question. XD Yeah! Well, as long as it doesn't bother you too much. This one is a heck lot of angst. :P**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: I getcha. XD Well, both of them are admittedly a bit detestable . . . Oh, Fellbeast, definitely. I'd be able to mount it myself. XD Maybe. I honestly wouldn't trust myself in the hands of another intelligent creature, gentle as they might be. Thanks! X) Sadly I won't see you this Saturday, though. :( I won't be able to update until next weekend.**

 **Diem Kieu: Thanks! :D Well, yes . . . . . . . . actually . . . . . . . . . XP Although I confess it isn't entirely what it appears to be. SWEEET I'm so ready! XD I've been missing Frodrida. :D! That's fantastic! That was hilarious. XD DFTYA!**

I woke up some two hours before dawn and wrote Frodo a quick note. I say quick; ink doesn't make things quick, but I left it to dry outside his bedroom door. Amongst all the papers in the main room and kitchen, I knew he would never see it there. I wrote in it an apology to Sam for leaving them so, but I had to do this myself, and I would be back by the end of May.

After that, I donned my cloak and pack, as well as my walking stick, and grabbed the Ring on my way out. I glanced around the hole one last time, as though I felt I would never be coming back. But things would be all right in a couple of weeks, if not sooner.

With this assurance in mind, I set off at last.

But before I got far, I realized that if I met anyone on the way I wouldn't want them realizing I was a lass. Lone women were often attacked, and I scrambled to think of a way I could help it.

Finally I decided with a great deal of hesitancy to cut my hair. Frodo would be up soon, I knew, but I had to get it done. I located a pair of small garden shears, unsure what else I could use without harming myself. I probably got a lot of dirt and weed clippings in my hair, but I didn't have time to care. I buried my cut curls; I was certain it looked horrible. Again, I might have cared at another time, but not now. I stood to begin my journey.

I glanced back at Bag End, wishing I could say goodbye to Sam.

"Miss Bix!"

And I thought I heard him. But then, as I wistfully turned back into the rising dawn light, I saw him. My eyes widened as he shambled rapidly across the ground toward me, donning a pack that clanged with pots and pans. I was a little too stunned to move.

"Sam," I managed finally, but he closed the distance between us, dragging himself to a halt some five inches away from me. I shook my head. "Sam . . . I . . ." I didn't really know what to say; he'd caught me, and I didn't know how.

He searched me. "I never realized how much you look like Mr. Frodo," he said, awed. He reached up and touched the ends of my curls, trailing down the side of my face. My eyes flickered at his touch, but he suddenly yanked away. "Please don't send me back, Miss Bix. I knew last night that you were going to take it, and I know how much you care about Frodo. But I want to keep you safe." He swallowed. "I love you."

I sighed. He'd said it so often, but every time he did it knocked me off-guard again and again. And now he didn't say he wanted me to stay home; he just wanted to help. So I conceded to let him come, and he let out a long breath.

"But Sam, there are always difficulties in people with women traveling without an entourage," I said, turning to walk. Sam scrambled to follow as I left West Farthing, headed for the woods. "I will keep my hood up in the company of other people, but I feel that you must address me as Mr. Underhill for the present."

I could see in the back of my mind Sam wrinkling his nose; his voice came out with that uncertain, almost disgusted, tone. "Miss Bix, you don't look anything like a Mr."

"Perhaps to eyes that have seen me in circumstances other than these," I said, "but I've been cloaked and mistaken for a lad by voice and build before. But no one must hear the name Baggins, even if you do slip and call me Bix. The second thing: . . ." I paused. I wished I didn't have to say this, but times were becoming difficult and we didn't have the circumstance to be doing what I would say we shouldn't.

I turned back to Sam, and he peered at my expression.

"Sam," I admitted, "I love you, but on a journey like this—short as it may be—we cannot express affection while we are here." I pocketed my engagement ring, and Sam's gaze followed it. "We shall have to wait until we return home. We are on the road alone, and I am presumably male for the present, simply for safety. Please, I hope you understand."

He nodded, methodical and hesitant. "I understand, Miss—Mr. Underhill."

I clapped his shoulder. "Thank you, Sam."

And from thence we were on our way.

To avoid as much embarrassment as possible, I will say I wasn't expecting Pippin to follow us. Apparently Sam had told him and Merry about this quest with the Ring . . . and that he guessed very strongly that I was planning to take it myself. Pippin slept in, however, and caught up with us just as Sam began cooking elevenses. We met Merry in Buckland.

"Sam," I said, trying to contain my inner distress at the fact that we now had Pippin with us, "What motivated them to leave their homes like this?" I couldn't possibly conjure in my own mind what could have possessed them to follow me so: they were not travelers.

"Loyalty," Sam said immediately. I'd expected him to think about it and tell me he wasn't sure why, but his response came so instantly that it took me aback. I blinked off my shock before asking him how he knew.

"They'd been outside while Gandalf talked," Sam said. "Gandalf actually told them now they had to go because they knew about the Ring, and they agreed. I told them it would be hard, not sleeping in a proper bed and not eating proper food, but they said they wanted to help. I told them it would be you, not Frodo . . ." He paused. "And they said they wanted to help even more. They said they wanted to protect you." He almost put his arm around me, then thought the better of it and actually stepped a little away.

I smiled. "I'm glad, Sam."

Truth be known, however, Pippin was—within only three days of traveling through the Shire—tired of the lack of proper comforts. Sam had difficulty adjusting to sleeping outside as well, nearly succumbing to illness from sleep loss, but I loved my sleep . . . and I loved the fresh spring in the air, the surging flame in my heart as my need to see more of the world spread its new little wings.

I led the group most of the time, inhaling and tasting everything new before me. Oh, how I wished Frodo could see all this, be here with me. But he would send me home. Sam was too submissive to hold me back, and Pippin and Merry couldn't care less. But Frodo—ah, Frodo. I wondered what he was doing, one day as we sat to eat.

Father had already been out here. I felt another lurch when I realized perhaps I would find him out here. And then a poem tripped through my mind . . . something about the road.

"The Road goes ever on and on—down from the door where it began," I whispered to myself. I stared at the horizon, waiting to be walked upon until I flew off the edge and discovered where the sun went, and why, all that it saw and the things it knew that perhaps I could one day. "Now far ahead the Road has gone, and I must follow it if I can, pursuing it with weary feet . . ." I paused, scoping forward. I couldn't tell if this was a memory or not, perhaps from many years ago when Mother was still alive. "Until it joins some larger way, where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say."

"Doesn't sound too optimistic," Pippin pointed out around a mouthful of sausage. I spun away from the tantalizing distance to face him as he continued. "That one of yours or Bilbo's?"

I paused. "I'm not sure. Father might have repeated it to me a long time ago. He used to tell me it's dangerous to go out your door, that I could get swept away." I was more talking to myself now than to Pippin. "And oh, did he almost get swept away sometimes. Every time he would come home from walking, he would point down the road just out of the hole and say, 'Bixbite, Mirkwood is down there. The Lonely Mountain. Worse, more fascinating places than that, even!'" I shook my head, suddenly aching as I missed him. _And someday I'll get to see them all,_ I thought. _For you, Father._

This didn't interest Pippin, and he turned back to his eating. I stared after the setting sun, wondering if Father was looking at it too. Did he wish I'd gone with him?

 **My apologies, but I will not be updating this Saturday: I will not be home, and will be driving home from a competition. Thank you for your patience! And, as always, thanks for reading!**


	7. In the House of Tom Bombadil

**Diem Kieu: Thanks! :D In all honesty, it's not the most exciting chapter, and definitely very short. It feels like I haven't updated in forever, though. O.o Guess these last two weeks have just been crazy! DFTYA!**

Later that day, we jogged along the road to pick up time we had lost by resting. It was a lot of work, and my heartbeat clogged my ability to hear until I slowed . . . and then I heard hooves behind us. I spun around, and after a hesitant, unsure moment, Sam and Pippin did the same. The bend in the road behind us concealed whomever was following us.

"Do you suppose it could be Gandalf?" Sam asked.

My eyebrows narrowed, suddenly remembering the wizard's instruction to stay off the road. "It could be," I said, "but if it isn't I don't want anyone else seeing us." My stomach sank, as though I knew it wasn't Gandalf. "Even if it is Gandalf," I said, almost more to assure myself than Sam or Pippin, ". . . well, it is just better to stay hidden."

Sam and Pippin launched into a hollow off the road immediately, and I turned to follow—but some little trace in my core, it felt to be perhaps curiosity . . . and yet too dark for such a thing, tugged at me to remain in place. I stared down the road for a quiet moment before leaping off and behind a tree root. I watched, still darkly curious, as an ink black battlehorse, shod with armor, labored down the way towards me. I sank farther down, but my curiosity pushed me up again, stabbing me rather mercilessly in the gut.

My eyes locked on the rider, assessing the cloak that covered his face, the ridged armor on his hands and feet. He drew his horse to a halt level with me. He scanned both sides of the road, and then . . . then he leaned out over me, sniffing the air. I admit it took me aback, and I did my best not to recoil from the invasive gesture.

Suddenly the stab in my stomach turned to a half-soothing ache, as though something was rubbing on the inside of my skin. I innately reached for the Ring, my eyes drifting shut. A voice entered my mind, whispering that things were all right, that I could use the Ring to hide, to be safe. We were still in the Shire; most of me rationalized touching it. My hand drifted to the chain around my neck, down the links of it, tracing the slender rises and falls.

The rider stiffened, and my hand dropped from the Ring's chain at his movement. He slapped his reins against his horse's neck, and it plodded off, slowly at first, then sped up and galloped away.

I swallowed, trying to push away the sting in my stomach. "Certainly queer," I murmured, unsure how else to describe it. I turned to the other hobbits, who rose from place. They were probably too deep to have seen the rider, so I described the situation to them, still flicking my gaze back up to the road once in a while . . . as though he would turn back.

We decided to make faster time, but regardless of the progress we made towards Buckland that day or the farther away the mysterious rider grew, I still felt sick. We did our best to progress that day, but were carried away by an ethereal singing I heard early on, a tingling, high sound that felt to be a part of nature itself. I craned my ears, and Sam halted his chatting with Pippin to ask the matter.

"Elves," I whispered.

I led the lads traveling with me to a circle of trees around a small clearing, where the sound was strongest. The day had gone by rather uneventfully, and it was nigh night when we stumbled upon a horde of Elves gathered around a fire, eating and drinking and dancing. Graceful as they were, it surprised me to find them in a position such as this, singing historic poetry that sounded like the work of my father. They bid us join them, and I suppose the lads enjoyed themselves, but I confess my mind was trapped on the Ring within my pocket.

One kindly Gildor seated himself next to me on a log before the Elves' fire, expressing excitedly that he wished I would join them. Once I removed my hood the Elves recognized that I was female, and I suppose he attributed my disconnection to the matter of my minority.

"Thank you, sir," I said, "but I'm afraid I haven't the heart at present. I am fatigued from the day; we've walked far. I hope you'll understand." My mind wandered again to the Black Rider . . . and then Pippin spoke up abruptly. His voice teetered with the swoon of far too much ale, or perhaps strong Elvish wine.

"Ho, Elves!" he cried out, and the host looked up at him. He hesitated in place, then fixed his gaze on me. "Are any of you familiar with any sort of Black Rider about the Shire?"

Murmurings began, and I buried my aching head in my hands; I feared Pippin would do something like this, although I confess a Black Rider was not what I had in mind, more along the lines of the Ring itself. But Gildor stood at last, lifting his glass into the air, and silenced the group.

"Yes," he said, his voice lowering. "There have been strange tales, and a dark spirit creeping over this land." He flicked his gaze to my pocket, and I initially lifted my hand, about to shield the Ring as though I had to protect it from the most trustworthy of creatures. I lowered my hand through what conscious force I could muster together and nodded for him to continue. He mentioned something briefly about a Black Rider pursuing Baggins.

Immediately my thoughts turned to Frodo and my father, and I panicked. I stood to grab Gildor and beg him to explain further, but he suddenly stated that the idea reminded him of an old tale, and he began singing again. I pleaded with him to listen to me, but the Elves all joined him, and soon Sam and Pippin sang with them.

I sank away from the Elf, back to my log before the fire with nothing more to consider than my worry on Father's behalf, or perhaps Frodo's. I imagined it likely that this Black Rider had something to do with my father, with the adventures he'd had before now. I didn't venture to believe the rider had anything to do with the Ring, but it was entirely possible, particularly regarding my reaction at the rider's presence earlier.

At the thought, my stomach crunched, prepared for the impact of sting from the Ring. I almost . . . anticipated that sting, enough that I wanted to be ready for it when it came, and I initially fingered the Ring. My stomach churned, angered in a numbing sort of way. After a minute I reasoned with myself and let the Ring go, but I still wanted to touch it, as though my body were only guarding itself unnecessarily against some strange feeling it could grow accustomed to. Maybe I just needed to prove to myself that I could carry this Ring.

The Elves offered to house us that night, and while it blurred past me I recalled Gildor assuring me that Frodo and Father would be fine . . . that the rider wasn't looking for either of them.

By morning the Elves were gone. Most of that day passed as the one before had, although we met Merry in Buckland after a dinner with Farmer Maggot and his wife, who offered us dinner and a beautiful bag of mushrooms that night. We met Merry along the road, and he took us to stay at his home that night.

I ought to have been grateful. In hindsight, I was. But I felt a residual ache in my stomach, still. Growing rapidly uncomfortable with the situation, I finally decided to leave the Ring in another room as I ate, and I was somehow able to enjoy myself there. I forgot about my pain when I settled into a soft mattress at last that night; I was so hesitant to take up the Ring again when I awakened the next morning, but it called gently to me, so I accepted it and moved on.

I don't remember much of that day either. But I do recall my feet burning that night; I expressed to Sam, after I failed to get any sleep, that I wanted to go down to the river near us and cool my feet. I fell asleep there, in the shadow of a welcoming tree.

To make a long story short, the tree evidently had a life of its own. I realized at that time, when the tree began to "eat" us (for lack of a better term), that my sense of panic was not up to speed. I did not fear the tree, nor did I fear dying. I had a horrid sense of ambivalence, one that I didn't recognize until my companions began crying out for help.

And thus we met Tom Bombadil. He recognized that I was the "Baggins lass" right away, although how he knew me I didn't understand. He kissed my hand, much to Sam's chagrin, and led us off to his tree, all the while singing and leaping, tagging me along enthusiastically. He addressed me kindly, flicking his ecstatic gaze to my pocket more than once. We ate at the courtesy of his companion Goldberry, who also treated me well.

The evening—full of tales and songs—passed so quickly. I suppose I couldn't have recognized at the time how horribly I would miss times of light and unburdened enjoyment. I'm afraid I don't recall the feeling anymore; that was something I took for granted as well.

I lay down to sleep, but I couldn't manage to get there. The darkness was rather comforting, however, shielding me from pains that I didn't understand.

I heard Goldberry singing softly in the primary trunk of the tree that night. Perhaps I could have been sleepwalking, but I somehow wandered in, watching her with a swan—with only one wing whole—tucked onto her lap. Looking back, I perceive it was, perhaps, only a dream. The swan made no sense, and neither did the halos of white light in her blonde hair. Candles danced around her, and Tom stood in the corner. Soon he joined her in her singing; it was in Sindarin, some subset of the language I understood bits and pieces of. I got lost in the hollow wood surrounding the two figures, Goldberry in her shimmering dress and Tom's bright eyes. Slender harmonies caressed my ears, soothed my aching stomach, and soon numbed me altogether; I floated, a cloud anchored only by the weight of sweet rain.

Tom's bright eyes found me. I'd forgotten, in the haunting melody and the lyrics of bittersweet destiny, that I simply was; was a creature, a being of coherence and existence.

"My dear, come." He gestured to me, then took my hand and led me to a stool off to the side. Goldberry softened her song, not looking at me. The swan protested in her lap, and Goldberry paused her song to quiet it before she continued to stroke its back.

Tom laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and sat me down. "I see the echoes of trouble in you," he said. He laid a hand over my stomach. "What is it, dearest lass?"

I shook my head; I'd brought the Ring with me, and now it seemed that its home in my stomach and Tom's touch were fighting. I squirmed at the battle in my body; a gentle tickle against the inside of my skin soon grew to an angry growl, a scrape as though clawing its way out.

"Tom, please!" I cried at last as my stomach burned.

Tom's hand shot into my pocket, and he yanked back with the Ring in his hand. The pain in my stomach vanished, but I crumpled with a residual ache onto the stool. Goldberry stopped her singing, and the swan trumpeted angrily, flapping its good wing. She pressed it against her lap, first frantic until she managed to grip the swan's body and hold it against her legs. The swan trembled, tucking its head into its wings.

Tom lifted the Ring into view, pinching it gently between his thumb and pointer finger.

"You are burdened," he said sorrowfully. His guileless eyes grew solemn, and he stared down at my stomach. Then his gaze lifted once again to mine, and he knelt before me. He took my hand, but didn't give the Ring back.

"Sweet Baggins," he said. Then he paused and shook his head. "I wish I could say something to comfort you, but in truth . . . this is your fate. Even if you were to give up the Ring now the consequences would remain within you." He then pressed the Ring back to me, and I held it to my stomach with the onset of stinging, as though it would be quelled with the contact. All it did was intensify the feeling, and I crumpled on top of it. My breath squeezed in and out of me.

Then I heard a crack, and I looked up. Goldberry and the swan were both frozen, staring down into a nest alongside the wall, where three eggs the size of my fists began to crack open. Peeps sounded, and the swan leaped up from Goldberry's lap. The lady stopped it with a gentle chuckle, then lowered the squirming swan to the ground. It—she, I gathered—waddled over to the nest, cooing with excited intermittence as her injured wing trailed behind her.

She surveyed her cygnets, rubbing her beak against their wet fuzz, before she glanced up at me. For a moment I could see my reflection in her eyes . . . leastwise, perhaps I did.

I dreamed that night about being that swan. But instead of the joy of the hatched cygnets, I only felt the agony of laying the eggs—and watching them rot.


	8. Long and Lonely Road

**Diem Kieu: XD Thanks! Ja, I get the feeling this is one of my weirder stories . . . probably going to turn out for feedback like Frodo, My Precious, but this fic is the brainchild of a very peculiar and controversial concept, so I can see where that comes from. :D There were a couple of lines in the very first chapters from the book as well; do you think it would be better if I quoted the book more often? Made it more familiar? O.o DFTYA!**

Gandalf wasn't at Bree, and some Ranger, one Strider, knew that I was not Mr. Underhill, although I kept my head down and never spoke. He journeyed with us, towards Rivendell. I suppose I simply do not remember this part of the journey well, or perhaps Sam has repeated it in stories so often that it no longer appeals to me to speak of it, but we journeyed for weeks towards the Last Homely House.

Due to the innate foolishness of my companions (which I should have expected; they didn't understand, and perhaps still don't), I was attacked by the Black Riders, which Strider revealed to be Ringwraiths. I remember a grinding in my stomach, there on Weathertop, as though the Ring expected that to be its last moments with me. But I kept it from the riders . . . and was rewarded by a dark crush to my collarbone. I fell unconscious after that, and awakened cold and ill. I carried my own weight when I could, but sometimes Sam would put me on our packhorse Bill that he loved so. I resented being unable to hold my own.

This lasted for days. The chill in my collar only strengthened, and through my haze I soon noted that we had come across a resident of Rivendell, one Glorfindel. He frantically explained that the wraiths were behind us, and that he had brought a horse to bear me while we continued forward.

But soon it became too dangerous; I could hear the wraiths, and the Ring twisted my stomach when I heard them. The very fibers of my body ached with the dark, Morgul invasion. Glorfindel must have felt it as I did, for he thrust me to his horse and hurried it on. Before I could ask what his intentions were, the horse leaped away, and I scrambled into the stirrups and onto the reins for dear life.

The wraiths found me, and I nearly collapsed from the saddle from the sinking weight on my stomach as I guided the horse over the river, or at least attempted to. The steed walked right through the water, back to where it knew was home. The wraiths halted before the water, screeching madly. Their horses tossed with rage. I withdrew the short sword I had received from Strider, and I held it out as though I could be any threat. But I did it on behalf of what I felt was right, deep down: that stirring in my center was wrong, and the wraiths only helped it along to whatever it desired to achieve.

I struggled to rise in my saddle, somehow turning to what Frodo would do were he in my place. He would be strong; he would fight back. I hefted my sword; in that moment I was thankful I need not use my left hand. In spite of that, I knew I was failing.

"Go back!" I shouted. "Come no closer; go back to the shadow from whence you came!" With this, my forehead broke out in sweat from the strain, and I moved to slack over the horse's neck. But the wraiths laughed, and I knew they would try to come across. "Go, I say! I will not yield!"

The leader's horse pranced against the lapping river. "Go back?" he shouted. The wraiths collectively shrieked, and I sank down against the barrel of my horse as they leaped into the water, their voices a chorus on the air. "Come with us!" they cried. "Come home, to the land of Mordor!"

My stomach gave a lurch, and the darkness gathering inside me screeched in response to them, summoning them . . . summoning me to Mordor. The wraiths chanted for their Ring as they cleared the river, and it answered with a strike to my stomach.

"No!" I squeezed my eyes closed and yanked back on the horse. "By the strength of the Elves and the Valar," I insisted, "you shall have neither the Ring nor me!"

That took any strength I had left, and my sword clattered to the ground. I slacked against the horse's neck, almost waiting for the wraiths to come and yank me from the steed's back. But the deafening crash of water stirring the rocks beneath me filled the air. I looked up dimly, only to find that the river was sweeping the wraiths away.

Gratified and exhausted, I slumped forward and felt no more.

~0~

I awakened in Rivendell to find Gandalf, and he described to me that I had been asleep for a few days. He did not explain, however, where he had been and why he didn't meet us in the Prancing Pony. He stated very sternly that he was not pleased at my taking the Ring and leaving Frodo behind. Like Tom, he shifted his gaze to my stomach. I didn't know how these creatures understood that I felt pain there, but they all seemed right disturbed.

He quickly adjusted the subject, without assuring me in any way that he wouldn't throw the Ring into the waterfall outside and force me home to grovel for Frodo to show mercy upon my departure. "Sam has hardly left your side," he interjected, although he had already told me this when I asked after my beloved's well-being. "Only to deliver messages and things. He truthfully has been worried about you." Then he reached forward and clapped my good shoulder. "Get dressed and come down; the Elves are prepared to dine with you."

I didn't feel ready to leave the comfort at last surrounding me, but I managed—after Gandalf left—to get myself up. My left arm felt quite well, enough that I could slip into a lovely green dress the Elves had laid out for me. I turned to the mirror then . . . and realized that, if I had looked small before, at least I looked healthy. Now I looked like a tween. A moment of shock followed, silence between me and my speechless, gangly doppelganger.

"No matter," I said to myself, bowing to the spidery creature in the mirror. "You are here to enjoy yourself, not to compare you to what you can become again." My blue eye glared at itself when I stood upright, as did my green one. I turned away; I couldn't take my own image, how the dress sagged around my crow-like figure and the uneven curls on the top of my head. I finally broke through the door of my bedroom, and was descending the breathtaking, marble steps when I ran into the face I'd longed to see that day.

"Sam!" I exclaimed, embracing him. He felt so solid and substantial compared to the little figure I'd seen in the mirror. He set me down, smiling at me, then shyly reached for my hand. His fingers interlaced with mine, and he kissed my knuckles.

"I've been worried about you, Miss Bix," he expressed. "All of us have!"

I grinned back. "I'm sure, Sam," I said. Then I sighed. "I'll be glad to get back home . . ." I reached up and cupped his tender cheek. "Home with you."

He squeezed my shoulders and guided me to dinner. I met Gloin there, the dwarf that had traveled with my father to Smaug's mountain. I told him I would rather see Father than any other in the world, and he expressed what a good creature Father was.

I had Sam while there; I wasn't alone. But I stared up at the stars after dinner, outside on the balcony outside my door, and wondered where my father had gone.

~0~

Elrond led me to greet a familiar sight that night. A black, hooded figure lay on the bed of a rather ornate, small bedroom. Elrond ordered him to awaken, but when the figure sat up he insisted that he wasn't asleep, but thinking of a new poem.

"Father!" I cried in spite of myself. I sprang away from Elrond, wrapping my arms around my father's shoulders. He laughed and embraced me; my heart felt ready to explode. I thought I would never see him again. I'd never said goodbye, and I didn't know if he was safe.

I spent many an hour with him, telling him of my engagement to Sam and the condition of Frodo and Bag End back home. To be perfectly honest, I didn't actually know what Frodo was doing: of course, I hadn't had word from him, and he hadn't found me if he'd come after me. I only hoped he didn't travel to Bree alone, only to find that neither I nor Gandalf were still there. I didn't worry about him too deeply, after I rationalized that I would be home soon, and hopefully Father with me. If not, I could at last let Father go, now that I knew where he was and that he was safe.

Besides, he confided in me that he felt too old and tired to go to the Lonely Mountain. While I mourned the loss of that adventure to myself, at least I would know he wouldn't die hung on some orc sword out where no one would find his body again. I anticipated going home and greeting Frodo, being married to Sam. We had to get home within a couple of days if we wanted to make it in time, so we did decide to postpone it.

But I counted down the days. The twelfth of June, we decided. I could see myself, already in a white dress suited to no matter how I appeared at the time, ready to be taken in to Sam's home, his life, his garden, his love.

Perhaps it would be sooner. Perhaps on the twelfth of June I would already be his. I could only imagine what that day would bring.

~0~

They wanted Father and me to be present for the decision of the Ring's fate. Many things were discussed, the history of the Ring and the betrayal of one Saruman, who evidently gave great power to Sauron's side of the war.

Many gazes flicked to me; I noted I was the only female present, only because I had defied Gandalf's command to let Frodo take the Ring. I was only too glad for the Council to be over, hopefully quickly.

Amongst bickering and fact-exchange, it was decided that the Ring had to be destroyed. The dwarves rallied to break it, melt it down, and the men rallied to use it, one Boromir in particular. When I laid eyes on the Ring, my stomach flipped . . . with something solid inside it. I gasped for air, clutching my stomach. I bent down low. I felt so tied to the Ring, as though it were a part of me, and I couldn't just let it go.

Perhaps if I destroyed it this pain would go away.

Father offered to take it, and before a response could spring forward I knew I had to get that Ring to Mordor. I felt trapped already, like I couldn't break through until that gold circlet melted into the awful inferno from whence it was crafted.

"Out of the question," Gandalf said to Father's insistence that it was his doing that had brought the Ring, and subsequently he should destroy it. "The Ring's presence here cannot be credited to one person, and although for you to finish it would be practical in such a light, you are simply not young enough to make the journey."

They began arguing amongst themselves: who would take this?

I finally spoke up, but I couldn't force my voice louder than a soft assertion. "I will take the Ring," I said. But somehow the entire Council quieted . . . and I felt perhaps the Ring had touched them all. As though it _wanted_ me to keep it longer. I swallowed when everyone turned to me, and I shrank just a little before squaring my shoulders. "But I do not know the way."

Gandalf snorted. "We cannot have a lass take it," he said.

Elrond held up his hand, his eyes locked on mine. I saw that glint from Tom's eyes in Elrond's.

"It is a dangerous mission," Elrond agreed, as though trying to contradict himself. Against what, I did not know. He shook his head, still watching me. "And yet . . . and yet, Gandalf, I believe she is meant to take it. Perhaps if she does not find a way, no man, dwarf, or hobbit lad will."

Gandalf shook his head, but when I turned to him he seemed to fall to the same, and conceded to let me go. I had known this would be a long shot, and it surprised me that they were willing to let a female take the Ring.

Then I spotted the little trinket. It glimmered back at me menacingly.

Perhaps the Ring was driving all of them mad—and I should never have agreed to take it.

Sam burst out from the shadows behind me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders protectively. "Miss Bix isn't going anywhere without me, Mr. Gandalf!"

Elrond's eyebrow shot up. "Certainly not, seeing as how it is impossible to separate you two, even if she is invited to a secret council and you were not meant to know of it."

One by one, Strider—whom I learned to be Aragorn, the heir of Gondor—, Gandalf, an elf Legolas, the dwarf Gimli (son of Gloin), and Boromir stepped forward, each taking my hand in turn and kissing it, as well as offering their protection. Elrond named us, as well as the inclusion of Pippin and Merry, the Fellowship of the Ring.

Sam turned pink by my side, then lowered his hand to mine. "Well, what a pickle we've gotten ourselves into, Miss Bix."

My gaze fell to the Ring. It taunted me, pulling at my stomach, and I shuddered. I burrowed against Sam, and he squeezed me reassuringly.

 _You can say that again_ , I thought.


	9. The Journey to Mordor

**Diem Kieu: Sadly I don't always know what's best, though. :P Yeah! Well, the LotR story only takes up half of the Bixbite story, so it was kind of rushed. :P And I was running out of juice for this one pretty fast, but I think it turned out decently. :) DFTYA!**

We set out all too soon. I was grateful for Father's gifts to me, although the mithril did not fit well and Sting was a little heavy for my frail, unworked arms. At least I knew I had some protection in case of any danger.

I try not to recall that time. The Ring ached like a stone, both upon my neck and in the core of my body, from Rivendell to Caradhras, through Moria and the passing of Gandalf. I didn't realize I had a lifeline within Gandalf—hope that I could destroy the Ring and that this horrid pain would be gone—until he was taken from me.

I blamed myself for his death. I dove down to save him, slipped right through Boromir's grasp . . . and didn't get to the wizard fast enough.

Despite the light of Lorien and the strength of the Elves at its center, the Ring did not leave me. Galadriel expressed her deepest condolences as Tom had done, taking me aside after greeting the Fellowship. She led me to a mirror, a fountain of vision amidst a cage of rock below the ground level. I saw the fate of my beloved Shire, and in my fright offered the Ring to Galadriel.

"I do not believe I can do this," I confessed. The pit in my stomach swelled, pressing towards the earth. "If there is any wisdom in you that can destroy the Ring, I plead that you take it."

But Galadriel nearly ripped it from my grasp; she grew greedy for the Ring, dark in a way that terrified me and caused a violent reaction in my body. I nearly took the Ring back, for fear that she would take it—and later, I realized, that it would lose me.

"No," Galadriel breathed at last. "The Ring has chosen you, Bixbite of the Shire. It will break you now if you give it up . . . and will only spread."

My eyes widened. "Spread? Galadriel—I don't understand."

Galadriel shook her head. "I do not understand either. But this task was appointed to you, by design and by your own decision to bear it."

~0~

I stood only two days later upon the shores of Amon Hen, staring at the Ring in my hand. Orcs had attacked, and Aragorn sent me away. I'd tried to give the Ring away yet again. My eyes squeezed closed; I remembered feeling strange sensations in my spine the night before. Sam noticed, asked me what he could do to help, and I told him that I loved him—but that he could do nothing.

The pain in my stomach carried with me now. I was beginning to grow strong against it, but it drove deeper whenever I made the attempt to adjust, as though swelling within me only as I could accept the constant agony.

Tears built up in my eyes. I couldn't do this. But no one else would let me go now, and I had no choice to press on to what I knew would be failure.

"I wish the Ring had never chosen me," I whispered. "I wish none of this had happened."

Frodo's voice broke through my mind, and I stiffened, remembering so starkly the shine in his eyes when he spoke to me.

"Bix, I want you to remember that, no matter what goes wrong in your life, that I love you, that Bilbo loves you, and that Sam loves you. Don't give up hope. Your friends and family may soon be gone, and for one reason or another will be against you, perhaps in an attempt to protect you. But remember things will always turn out all right, no matter how awful life appears."

I stared down at the Ring in my palm and knew that Frodo was right. I couldn't see light right now, but he always could, and he knew so much. I shoved the Ring down into my pocket, and my stomach protested; I lurched, then squared my shoulders and marched right into the canoe before me. I could do this; I always had Frodo.

I looked back into the forest. And I always had Sam's love, no matter where I left him.

But even as I pushed off from shore, I heard him calling for me. I turned around abruptly, then yanked myself back: I couldn't let him come. He'd already put himself in enough danger by volunteering twice, so now I had to take the opportunity away.

"Miss Bix!"

I shook my head. " _No_ , Sam. I love you; go away," I muttered.

Then I heard a loud splash, and it continued. My eyes slacked back. The _obstinacy_ ; didn't he realize he was going to get himself killed? I needed him to live.

"Go back, Sam!" I bit my lip. "Look out for Frodo for me!"

Sam charged through the river. "I'm not going back until you do, Miss Bix!"

I paused as the water level deepened, and a memory of going out on the lake with Sam overwhelmed me. "Sam, you can't swim!"

Suddenly he stumbled in the water and disappeared.

I leaped out of the canoe as I yelled his name. I probably should have taken the craft with me in hindsight, but again, the memory overwhelmed my every other sense: I remembered having to jump out after him before this time, because the canoe snapped. I had to drag him back to shore, but at the time I was larger and stronger. Now I didn't know if I could do it.

But I managed to find him below the water's surface, and I wrapped my arms solidly around his torso, trying to drag him back towards the canoe. I didn't understand how I made it back: I thought it was my own ability, but in hindsight the Ring saved me. I shoved Sam's head above the surface onto shore, and as I broke the water he hefted me onto the sand. We managed to lift each other into the ship.

I stared at him, disbelieving, as he sat across from me. He opened his mouth to say something, and I regret now that I will never know what he meant to say. The ache of the Ring, the distance from home, the uncertainty of the future, the broiling emotions at realization that Sam was coming with me because he loved me, all came crashing down.

"Sam!" I cried. I grabbed the clasp of his cloak and yanked him forward, kissing him hard. Sam inhaled sharply; tears trailed from my skin to his. Suddenly I wanted to be locked there, in his arms with no need to move anymore. The Ring recoiled as Sam pushed his affection back to me, and soon I collapsed from my incapability, wrapped in his strong arms as he kissed and caressed me with a tenderness I never expected from him.

I pushed him back, and he gave me a confused look.

"Sam, what are you doing?! You could be killed if you come with me."

"I love you, Miss Bix!" he insisted. "Don't send me away. I'm not going home without you, and you're not going to Mordor without me." He swallowed. "Because when you love each other you stay together; that's what Mr. Frodo says."

I bit my lip. I didn't want him to die. I didn't want to go alone. I battled with myself until I reached forward suddenly and took him in my arms. I gripped his cloak, knowing I had the potential to push him away and hoping that I wouldn't take that chance, even though it was probably the right thing to do.

~0~

I appreciated his comfort every day, through the maze of Emyn Muil, through meeting Gollum, through fighting through the marshes. He held me when I couldn't sleep, and he told me often that he loved me.

The Ring persisted with Sam's affection, fighting and coursing through my stomach. But I found that the more I touched it, the more relieved my pain became; I suppose, then, less relieved and more numbed. I did not ache so much, not with that slender, gold, reflective surface to distract me. I began to hold it in long increments.

Somehow, although I shan't explain my mental state in this context, I came to _care_ for Gollum. Smeagol, I remembered he was called. He grovelled at my feet at first, but after I adjusted to his character and he adjusted to mine, I realized just what a sorrowful creature he was. I began to pity him, look after him. Sam did not trust him, but that was perhaps a consequence of Gollum attacking me at the first. But once I appealed to the Smeagol within, he began to help, finding me food when he could and offering any help he had the capacity to render.

It irked me that Sam didn't trust him. Couldn't he at least open up, see that the Ring had an impact on people? He judged Smeagol too harshly, I felt, and upon failing to enter the Black Gate I trusted Smeagol's judgement, only to find that Sam appeared hurt.

"Sam," I said as we walked, "you have no idea what Smeagol has been through. How can you treat him the way you do, not knowing the pain he has borne?"

Sam gave me actually a rather disgusted look, then aimed it at Smeagol. We were walking through dry country at that time, a detour from the Black Gate to a hidden path Smeagol had talked about, and Smeagol was slinking around in the short brush, as though hiding from something. I confess he looked deeply suspicious, but that was no reason for Sam to make such a disdainful bias in himself.

"Because he is the way he is," Sam insisted. I shook my head; he'd been saying that for some time.

"The Ring doesn't leave you the same," I said. "He must have been some sort of good creature prior to his tainting; I wish you would see him that way."

Sam shook his head. "I can't, Miss Bix. He's a villain, make no mistake of that, and I'm not about to trust him and let him throttle you behind my back or take that Ring for himself." Sam stared down at my stomach, and he reached forward to touch it. I asked him one night if it felt strange, and while he was hesitant to move I put his hand over it, and he told me it was hot. I looked at it, told him it wasn't swollen, and he was confused: he said it felt so. I hadn't told him it had anything to do with the Ring, but perhaps he noticed my pain (or lack thereof) when I touched it.

"Sam, you wouldn't treat him so if you _knew_ what it did to him . . . what it continues to do." I stepped around him and continued after Smeagol, in spite of Sam's protests that the creature was anything but trustworthy.

"We have no choice," I called back to him. He quieted then, but I almost wished he would continue to goad me. Something didn't sit right with me about Smeagol.

~0~

Faramir treated me as well as one could a spy, although I was no such thing. I attempted to keep our quest secret, but as I explained my journey to Faramir, Sam brought it up. In fact, they located Smeagol after a time, at the Forbidden Pool. I insisted they not hurt him, explained that all he wanted was fish and that I would go down and get him. They could shoot me if they wished, but they ought to leave Smeagol alone.

Sam avoided the water as best he could. But when I brought Smeagol back out of the water, I knew they would imprison him.

In spite of what I knew was wrong, the Ring soothed my typically aching stomach when Smeagol spat in my face and they carried him away.

Faramir soon let us go . . . and Smeagol swore to follow me . . . but I couldn't ignore the knowledge that something was wrong.

I couldn't drag myself through too much more of this, I finally decided. Although I'd become accustomed to the Ring's weight, I didn't appreciate the aching feeling. I'd come to accept it as a part of life, and subsequently felt that life wasn't as much worth it as it used to be. I lost my will to move on.

"Miss Bix," Sam said at last, while I dragged myself up the stairs of Cirith Ungol. I was on hands and knees at this point, unable to go farther faster. The lembas helped, but I was in no condition to eat: for the first time in my adulthood, I felt violently sick. Even so, I felt I hadn't ever been so sick as a child either, save when I ate too much of a week-old pastry that perhaps had so much wrong with it that I may not have lived.

I turned my eyes slowly to Sam. I felt so dehydrated . . . tired . . . dirty . . . ready to give up, right now.

Sam lowered before me as best he could on the stairs and braced his hand against my cheek. His thumb traced the bone underneath my eye.

"You look so tired, Miss Bix," he said gently. "Come lay down here."

 _Technically it's_ lie _down, Sam_ , I thought at first. But then through my fatigue I realized I really didn't care, even if I might have corrected him before. I didn't care about being right: it didn't matter what else Sam did for the rest of his life, this comfort he offered me in that moment was all worth it.

I fell asleep with my head on his lap. He rested one hand on my forehead, and laid the other down to cup my neck as though it would snap over his leg. I curled into my cloak and thanked him under my breath for being there.

 _Sam . . . I feel awful._

~0~

I confess I had never been taught how to fight a giant spider; I tried to scream for Sam before its stinger lodged in my neck, and I collapsed to the ground. Contrary to popular belief, no, I was not stung because he abandoned me: I simply hadn't the strength to fight such a huge creature while he encountered Gollum elsewhere in the cave.

When I awakened, I realized what had happened. While I never considered the orcs merciful creatures, I was grateful that they had left me with the tight (rather loose now that I had become so gangly) shirt and leggings I wore beneath my vest and pants . . . until I realized that the Ring was gone.

That revelation ignited despair in me, and I tried to claw my way out of my bindings. My stomach, for once, did not ache: no, it felt like that branch of the Ring was dying, like I was being cleansed, but that a parasite within me had to pass away.

I didn't understand. All I knew was that something in me was agonized, decaying, and I had to stop it, in spite of the lack of pain it offered. I felt empty; in a good way, I supposed at the time, but I protested against it inside. The ache was such a force of habit, a _part_ of me, that I couldn't let it go.

I grew anxious. And restless. And overcome. Obsessed. Ravenous.

Scared.

I didn't remember any comfort but the ever-present agony of the Ring, and I pained for it. Cries escaped my throat, and I rolled on the floor. I continued to strain against my bindings, to no avail. I thrashed against them, ever growing desperate against any barrier between me and the Ring.

I almost didn't hear the orc behind me unsheathing his knife and gloating madly about how he would torture me to death. Even so, I did not feel initial fear when I saw him, poised above me and ready to strike. I almost wanted him to take me, that this agony would be better than my loss of the Ring.

But then he fell over, and a blue spark entered my vision. My eyes widened, and I peered, almost incapably dumbfounded. Suddenly Sam's warm, comforting voice filled my ears, although I never learned what he said, if it was to me or the dead orc, or to the sky, or to the Ring. But I didn't care.

My cries became coherent suddenly. "Sam!"

Sam knelt down beside me, cupping my face. "Miss Bix, you're alive!" he cried. He reached down to kiss me, and I responded enthusiastically, throwing my bound arms to his shoulder where I gripped his cloak and didn't let go. But then my palm found something . . . his pocket, I realized. My stomach stung with the Ring's presence, and I abruptly broke away from Sam.

"Bix—,"

I shook my head, my gaze suddenly locked on his coat pocket. My fingers dug inside, searching frantically for the Ring that I needed so. Sam scrambled away from me; the farther away the Ring drifted, the more my panic and inner need escalated.

"Sam, give it to me. Please." I held out my bound hands, as though begging for the Ring . . . which I realized I was. My need grew from pitiful to angered, and I trembled in place to keep myself from tackling him and taking it. Couldn't he see I needed it? It moaned for me, and my gut responded. I scrambled to my knees only to crash back to the floor, broken in half by a stinging pain.

I opened my mouth for Sam, but the wrong words broke from my mouth.

"My Precious," I murmured. My body rolled back and forth in my agony. "My Precious, hurry . . . Precious . . ."

"Miss Bix," Sam began, staring into my eyes. He grew hazy within them; my vision burned holes through his pocket, or so it felt, as though I could see that tantalizing little circlet despite what stood between us. It wasn't tantalizing for being itself, but for feeding the ache within me. Sam's voice blurred, and I couldn't hear a word that he said. I cocked my head, staring at him.

"Precious . . ." I hissed.

Sam lifted the Ring from his pocket, and a flare ignited in my stomach, an upheaval of my complete viscera. I cried out in enraged panic and pain; that glimmer of gold remained the only coherent focal point in my entire thought process. I screamed again, begging the ache to go away with what sanity I had left. Sam dove to my side, quickly throwing the Ring into my hand, and the ache returned to replace the burning in my soul. I shuddered back to life, as it were, staring reverently at the Ring. It wasn't even Precious to me; it had twisted me, hurt me.

I stared up at Sam, quickly throwing the Ring's chain over my head. "I'm sorry, Sam," I whispered. Tears stung my eyes, and I swallowed them back. "I'm so sorry."


	10. You Are Lost

**Diem Kieu: Yeah . . . XP I should not write when stressed or rushed. :D But someday this story will be longer! When I have time. Which could be after I graduate from college-anyway, this chapter should be intense too. The LotR story really wasn't so much the basis of this, and I almost crunched LotR into just the first chapter. O.o And we're . . . ooooh, a little under halfway through with this, it'll only come out to be 20-something chapters. :) Thanks! DFTYA!**

Glass in my throat. Sand on my tongue. Fire in my eyes, stone in my blood, sweat like molasses draped over my skin. I couldn't move anymore. I didn't want to. The weight in my stomach flattened me against Mount Doom below me. Out of hazy eyes I could see comets of fire and ash spewing from the molten gold top of the mountain before my vision, although no lines were clear. I had to get up there. This agony, this hunger in me, the thirst and exhaustion ravaging my brittle body, could be ended. I would be willing to give up and die; of course, I wished to now, but once the Ring was destroyed I knew I would be left in peace to be gone.

I strained and groaned, narrowing my eyes at my target. I mustered all the strength I had, and only managed to throw my arm forward. My legs hadn't the strength to carry me, but perhaps my hands did. I grabbed at the mountainside, at the largest rocks I could, but there was only gravel and ash. I dragged myself upward like a newly hatched turtle on the sand of a beach, sticky and uncertain, in danger at every turn from the natural disasters that surrounded me. Unlike the turtle, however, I had no future; I had no hope of survival.

And I had nowhere to go, I realized.

But I carried on, for perhaps another drag or two, before the heat stifled my ability to breathe, and I collapsed against the stone. I lay there to die. I wished the Ring would die with me; I could only think, over and over again, that I'd failed my mission. I couldn't complete it. Sam couldn't. We would both die here.

The stone of the earth shifted behind me, and suddenly warm hands grabbed at my shoulders, lifting me from the ground. I swayed to Sam's touch, willing him to surround me and let me die in his arms.

"Remember the Shire, Miss Bix?" he whispered. His trembling, tear-cloaked lips touched my cheek. I shuddered; I wanted that more, but the Ring didn't: it denied me, pulling me away from Sam. But he, luckily, had more strength than my body did, and so held me close to his chest. "It's almost your birthday again. The blossoms'll be full and pink over the lake . . . and they'd be fallin' into your hair. The lasses will all be fixin' to go court, and Rosie Cotton will be making your favorite tarts with apple filling. Do you remember the taste of apples, Miss Bix?"

I turned up to Sam, my eyes straining to open and see him. I couldn't remember anything. He said it all so vividly, employed that beautiful voice I knew and loved so well, but it was all numb to me now. A rising wall of ash and smoke blocked me from the view of my beloved Shire, of my family and friends at home, of the gentlehobbit before me that I'd loved more than anything. The ash blasted a roar through my ears, and the image in my eyes—the tower of smoke—exploded right with it, thickening and blackening my sight. Then a tongue of fire burned right through the center, mockingly licking at my eyes. I shook my head wildly, and then the tongue materialized into the Eye of Sauron.

I screamed outright. "Sam! The fire . . . !" I couldn't anymore. I struggled in Sam's grip, my eyes growing wide as though to see over the smoke in my eyes. The Eye screeched after I did, condensing and shuddering until it became the Ring.

 _"_ _You are mine . . . Baggins."_

"Sam!"

Sam's voice carved right through the nightmare. "Let us be rid of that accursed thing! Come on, Miss Bix; I can't take it from you, but I can carry you!" He launched me over his back, and before long we were ascending the mountain.

Tears trickled out of my eyes. How did I ever deserve him? I rationalized that I never did deserve him, that Sam just somehow magically loved me. I'd never asked him why I mattered to him, incapable and lacking in value as I was; I'd always been too scared to know the answer. But as he carried me up the mountain, exhausted his last piece of starved, dehydrated, precious energy, I had to know.

Before I could ask, we were attacked by Gollum. Sam fought him off, and I took off for the mountain crest. Then I realized, about halfway up, that there was a door rather close to me, that it would certainly be unwise to attempt climbing to the crest. The Ring burned within me, but it felt exhausted of energy. It fueled me with what it had left, and I leaped up to the stone archway, clutching the Ring against my chest.

I raced inside, met by a trembling world of fire and rock. There lay only one path upon entering, a long stretch of cliff over a river of lava . . . the Crack of Doom. I raced to the edge, snapping the Ring's chain from my neck in my desperation to be rid of this ache in my core.

But even as I stood there, the reflection of the light in the gold forced me at least to say goodbye. I lowered the Ring into my palm, staring at it.

 _Here we are_ , I whispered. _It is time. You are finished; you have no power over me, and I've brought you here to prove it._ I nodded assertively to myself.

The Ring trembled, and I gasped as it replied, its voice—or some horrid rendition of one—echoed through my heart and soul, not my ears. It was almost more of a foreboding feeling, one sentence after another, that I put into words simply for my own translation benefit.

 **I have all power.**

My stomach ached, and I doubled over.

 **You are nothing.**

I clutched the Ring to my stomach, almost poking myself with the object to get my insides to stop.

 **It is too late.**

My eyes widened with realization, although regarding what I knew not. I only knew the dread that sank my body to the ground, and the tears that racked my eyes. I knew the Ring was part of me in some way now, some way that I could never remedy, not with time, not with medicine . . . not with Sam.

 **You've lost.**

Sam entered; I refused to destroy the Ring, afraid what would and could happen. It had already taken me, in whatever awful sort of way it had the capacity to do, and to destroy it now—well, I found I simply couldn't. It was a part of me. It almost seemed to threaten that to destroy it now would be to hurt me even more than if I kept it . . . just a little longer.

I put it on, and felt a thrill in my head as I did so, as though the Ring were giving me a condescending—but long sought after—pat on the top of my messy curls. Gollum bit off my finger, and the moment the Ring and I were separated, the sting departed from my stomach, and I bowled out a cry of both relief and insatiable agony.

Gollum somehow managed to fall into the Crack of Doom, and I felt the fire in my stomach dissipate when the Ring was finally no more.

Sam and I assisted each other out of the mountain, throwing ourselves just ahead of the lava that pursued us to an outcropping in the side of the mountain face. Sam grabbed me by my waist when I nearly fell, hoisting me up onto the top of the outcropping. I scooted aside for him, but he insisted the top was too small and he couldn't join me.

I wouldn't watch him burn first, but suddenly the smoke and the fire in my vision from earlier was gone. I felt lighter, happier. I smiled, staring up at the sky.

"It's done! The Ring is gone!" I sighed contentedly, my lungs quivering with the sudden realization of the worst part of my life, these months of dragging agony that had become the only aspect of reality ever to be again vanished into thin air. Suddenly I traveled back home.

"Sam," I said. He stared up at me, and I lowered down to speak to him. I braced my fingers against his jaw, caressing that face I loved and knew so well. "I remember." I smiled, and his eyes lit up as I continued. "I remember going out on the lake with you . . . the party . . . the night you asked me if I would be yours." I quickly grasped my engagement ring from within my pocket, sliding it over my finger. I ducked down from the outcropping and cuddled up against his chest; Sam held me close, kissing the top of my head.

"We made it, Miss Bix," he said. His voice vibrated in his throat, and thus against my skin. "And I'll marry you when we're off home."

I smiled, then reached up and braced my palms against his cheeks. Tears flickered down his face, and I gently fingered them away, savoring—in spite of the ash and blood on the skin of us both—what I could do, what I could touch and what I could feel deep within.

We would not go home, I knew. We were stuck here. But we were one; we'd gone through too much to ever be separated. I could dream if I wanted . . . and I knew he would do so anyway. Imagine the life we

might have had, with all of its ups and downs and turmoils and hardships and affection and love.

"Of course we will," I said softly. I sifted my fingers through his hair. "Frodo will be there to give me away. We'll have at least five children, Sam, and live happy, long lives in the Shire . . . gardening and living like proper hobbits should." I swallowed back my other thoughts; I once might have included a desire to travel, at least hinting to see if Sam had any enthusiasm for it at all, but now I'd seen the world.

Now I'd seen the world and I was hurt because of it.

Sam tipped up my jaw, and my eyes flickered. His gaze darkened with sympathy; his brow creased as he brushed my short bangs away.

"Miss Bix, we don't need any of that," he whispered. "We have each other, and that's enough. Love is enough," he reasserted.

I closed my eyes and bit my lip. "Did Frodo tell you that?"

Sam nodded. "And I believe it. All of it."

After a brief hesitation, perhaps to let me reply if I wished, Sam lowered his warm mouth to my own. He was soft and careful, caressing in an innocent but forward way that only Sam could: persistent, but not untoward. I kissed him back after initial shock, as though I would never feel or know anything truly pleasant in my life again, and this was something that denied my expectations for what I could ever feel or do again.

I kissed him fervently, unable to hide my unbridled need for . . . I didn't know what. Warmth? Comfort? Affection? Realization? Regardless, I mostly forgot the experience after, dizzied by the repeated brush of his lips against mine and the soft sighs in the back of my throat. I finally pulled away, and poor Sam looked frazzled. I realized my fingers were tangled in his hair, and his head rested limply against one of my hands. I released him, a little chagrined at my own behavior, but he opened his arms, and I landed solidly against his chest.

"I love you, Sam," I said. "And I'd rather be here with you than anyone else in the world."


	11. Sam and Sorrow

**Diem Kieu: Thanks so much! :D Yeah . . . well, romance, I guess. Kim Shin/Ji Eun Tak (ShinTak) were voted Best Couple on DramaFever for 2016. O.o Doesn't surprise me; they're incredible. But yeah! More LotR romances! DFTYA!**

By some miracle we were rescued. I remember nothing, if anything at all, about what brought us back to Minas Tirith, to the Fellowship. I remember being plucked off the ground, and nothing more.

I awakened to greet Gandalf, overwhelmed with amazement that he was still alive by some untold miracle. Deus ex machina—or perhaps too good to be true, or so I feared—as I saw it, until he explained what had happened. I greeted Merry and Pippin, and was rewarded with shouts and kisses all over my face. I pushed them back and off, and they ran off to find some food . . . as to whether the food was for me or for them, I did not know, but I didn't quite care: I wasn't hungry. As a matter of fact, as I greeted Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, I realized I was nauseated.

Sam glanced inside, offering me a sweet smile. I returned it to him, reminded of why I was here and why I wanted to move on. As he backed away to let me rest, I realized I had taken him for granted. Not just as far as the Ring was concerned, or the journey as a whole with all the willingness, concern, compassion, and protection he offered . . . but my whole life. I'd had an admirer from the time I was under 30 years of age, and never once had I looked at him. I'd had a generous friend in Sam for decades after that, and I didn't have the decency to tell him I cared, or even process what he was doing for me every time he presented me with a beautiful flower. He'd had the courage to propose to me, to kiss me, to want and love me and I had done so little in return.

I honestly didn't understand why he cared for me the way that he did, but I was determined never to question it again, not to postpone another day what could be mine and what I could offer him for the rest of my life. I needed to focus, I realized, on what would make Sam happy. He had done so much for me thus far, and now that the Ring was gone I could do something for him.

I shook my head. Frodo knew too much too well; I remembered that day when he'd told me that no good action came without a price, and I felt that I finally understood.

The moment I could get up for myself without swaying from exhaustion, I was going to tell it straight to Sam . . . express what gratitude I had for everything he'd done.

All through Aragorn's coronation, I did my best to be strong and supportive. But I couldn't. I felt so ill and so weak; I conceded I hadn't had long enough to recover from months of malnutrition and psychological degradation. I looked worse now than I had in Rivendell, and Sam vowed to feed me the best of his stew when we returned home. He insisted that Frodo would do the same.

He was sitting by my bed at the time, as I hadn't the capacity to stay anywhere else for long. I didn't feel like eating then, but I forced roasted deer down my throat—I'd never eaten something so horrid in my life. That disturbed me, for I had always liked meat, every bit as much as my father did.

I set my plate aside and sank back into my bed. Sam reached for my hand, his brow bent with concern. I smiled up at him briefly . . . but it faded with an onslaught of nausea and a hesitant desire to ask him why. Why did he care about me? Why did I deserve him, this honest, upright, loyal creature?

When I made the attempt to form words, only a groan escaped. I hadn't realized I was in that much pain, but my body knew all along: my weakness spread to an overall ache, and when I attempted to speak, I could produce little air. The exhale, meant to be a question, died as it passed my lips, and I sank into the bed. My eyes drifted closed without my willing them, and I jolted in place, attempting to stay conscious. I was not frantic, as though I'd been expecting this, or perhaps truly didn't care.

"Miss Bix?!" I almost thought I'd dreamed up Sam's voice, and in my muddle wondered why he was so concerned; I was just tired.

But I didn't want to be. I wanted to awaken, and usually I should have been able to open my eyes . . . but I lost consciousness.

The next few weeks were an absolute blur. I remember fuzzily being told that we were going straight back to the Shire, or at least to Rivendell so the Elves could find out my trouble. No matter how much I ate or drank, how much rest I managed to get, I never recovered.

But they knew nothing. We were moved along; they searched my Morgul stab, searched for signs of infection and signs of darkness. Outside of slight traces that should have caused me no trouble, they found no sign of anything wrong.

But they did ask me peculiar questions, such as if I was married, or if I anticipated being a mother in the near future. I assumed it had something to do with how capable this illness would leave me to carry out my tasks, and I told them no, I had only ever been engaged. They looked oddly uncomfortable.

I remember seeing glimpses of green forest from sitting in front of Sam on his horse, then collapsing against the steed's bay neck. Sam gently wrapped an arm around my waist to keep me up, but I couldn't stay awake. I felt horrible, twisted from my neck to my hips like a bundle of stiff rope. I remember distinctly being fed a few times, given water more often than that . . . but I wanted to throw it all back out.

But finally, as we entered the forests of Anduin, there was something I did want, something I'd never wanted before. I had only tried it once, and I didn't like it when Father served it to me. But now I needed it, ravenously.

"Salted apple, Sam," I urged. I was surprised at the darkness of my own whisper.

Sam stared at me. "Miss Bix?"

"Salted apple!" I cried. Sam jolted and scrambled to do what I asked, bless his heart. "Juice it! Cinnamon if you must! Salted apple!" I needed the sweetness of apple in my mouth by solid or by liquid, and I thirsted for salt. Plenty of it. And at the moment, salted apple—my father's attempted "recipe" of broiled apples with salt and vinegar, in theory a form of chips when potatoes were unavailable—seemed the only thing I could think of that I desperately hungered for.

Sam still had the salt box he'd brought with us on our journey, but even when he fed me four whole apples with all the salt we had, it still wasn't enough.

"Salt," I gasped, as though the lack of it would kill me. And it almost felt that it would. "Salt."

We were still weeks yet away from returning to Bag End. Or days, I could not recall. All I knew was that I wouldn't make it, and even if I did the journey would not be pleasant by any means.

But Merry remembered that we were near the home of Tom Bombadil, and expressed hopefully to Sam that Tom would have an answer to my malady. I only remember jostling in Sam's arms as night drew near; we left the horses behind to seek Tom, and Sam cried out for him repeatedly.

Finally Tom found us, and he immediately took me from Sam. My ears were numb, and could pick up nothing that either of them said. All I knew was that in moments I had a bed, and when I had an influx of salted apples I felt satiated.

I caught, some distance from my bed, the swan and her peeping, fluffy cygnets . . . as well as her mate, waddling peacefully nearby with a more high-pitched trumpet than her own. He looked upon his family proudly and nuzzled the exhausted mother. I had no doubt this was not the same batch of eggs I had seen before, that this family had been quite busy.

Something about them was so clear to me, in a way nothing else could have been in that moment. What if I didn't want salt? What if I wanted what that mother swan had: healthy offspring and a male counterpart that loved me and cared about me?

Right now I felt like that was impossible. Something in my stomach told me so.

I rested for many days. But even with that salt influx, I felt the pain in my stomach coming back . . . this time much worse. Sam and Merry were out picking apples, Pippin was probably chasing squirrels somewhere, and Tom and Goldberry had disappeared after supplying me with a walking stick if I wanted to get up, as well as a platter of salted apples and a huge jug of water.

It started as a residual ache, as though I had eaten too much at a holiday dinner. But I had not, or so I hoped. I did eat more than I had before, possibly just for the unexplainable need for salt in my body. I tossed and turned, attempting to get sleep, but the ache grew worse. It gradually spread to full nausea, blowing in my stomach until I had to explode. I began to panic and tremble, horribly anxious at the idea of vomiting, or whatever else would happen. It seemed more terrifying than anything I'd ever gone through, but I couldn't explain why.

I decided I felt vulnerable, alone in a place I had hardly been, without Tom, without Frodo, without Father, and especially without Sam.

My breathing grew labored with the prospect of what was going on; I didn't want to endure the pain of retching. I couldn't. I hadn't the strength. Something was amiss, and I felt my nausea was a part of it.

Suddenly the silence was too much to bear. I fidgeted and rolled in place, and after a few minutes scrambled for my stick. I launched myself from bed, muttering to myself that I had to find Sam. I had to find Sam.

I took one step before collapsing against the wood and dirt floor; my knees cracked down, and suddenly my stomach had had it. I threw my stick instinctively to the side, bound up my unruly curls with a yank on my hair, and leaned far over my knees.

"Sam!" I belted, and then the remnants of anything I had eaten in the last few days—mostly salted apples—left me. A burn resided in my throat, and I cried out from the sting. I felt so exhausted, so weak, so helpless. My world spun with dark floor and sharp acid in my mouth. "Sam!" I cried again, buckling on my back against the floor. I moaned repeatedly, and nearly retched again, but there was nothing left to give to the floor.

The door to my room flew open, and I dizzily stared up. But it wasn't Sam; it was Pippin.

"Bite!" he shouted. He lifted me off the floor, trying to set me on the bed, but he wasn't gentle enough; I wrested from his grasp and crashed against the ground. "Bite, what's wrong with you?!"

I couldn't answer. "Sam . . ." I groaned. Only his name escaped my lips, wishing for his comfort and his care to wash this all away. I realized in that moment that this pain, this nausea, had been my life since I destroyed the Ring, and I was so tired of it. I wanted to eat again. I wanted to think again, laugh again, truly live again.

Pippin raced out of the room, also calling out for Sam, for Tom, anybody.

I moaned again, convulsing on the floor with my nausea. I tried to fall unconscious, just to get away from this agony. Maybe if I died here I wouldn't trouble any of them again; I didn't know if I would ever come out of my exhaustion. It felt like it had been an eternity since the last time I felt whole, all right.

My Sam came to me at last. Pippin and Goldberry rushed to mop up the floor, for which I was grateful in the back of my mind. But I only wanted Sam. I burrowed into his arms, willing the comfort of my best friend so close to me to drive my angry stomach to calm. But as I curled up over his knees, my waist and hips protested with a strained ache.

I couldn't cry out for him anymore. Tears shoved out from my eyes, but they were so dry. I hadn't been in any position with a desire to drink water for the past few days, and now my eyes itched.

"Sam . . ." I whispered. I wrestled against him with another nausea attack, at least conscious enough to know that I didn't want to retch all over his back.

Sam didn't understand. He held me closer, worriedly repeating to me that things would be all right, that I was going to be fine. I felt like he was more trying to assure himself, since I didn't have much time to be awake anyway. I might as well have already passed out.

My stomach cried, livid and afraid. The pain burst from my mouth, and Sam jolted. He struggled to hold me down as I writhed in his arms, shouting my name and asking me if I was all right. I decided it had to be a knee-jerk reaction for him; he knew I couldn't answer. Tom raced inside, shouting a poem about the circle of life.

My eyes slipped closed in the darkness of being buried against Sam's shoulder. I never wanted to see again.


	12. Beyond the Scar

**I get that I haven't uploaded in FOREVER-it honestly has been a while, and I apologize. XD I guess I just got really busy and really distracted, as all Fanfiction writers do at some point.**

 **But because my passion for this story came merely from the fact that there aren't enough fem!Frodo/Sam ships on this site, I have bigger projects that I would love for you guys to read, so I am uploading this-again, for the ship's sake-hopefully all in one shot, and my story Slave (Frodo/Pearl Took) will be ready for publication next Saturday. Also, if you are familiar with Goblin or want to see any more Frodomances, check out my profile page, because I have a story in progress for the former and a whole bunch of stories for the latter. Thanks, and have a great read!**

When I awoke, Sam was gone, and I was back in bed. My stomach ached mildly, and my head spun. I still didn't want to open my eyes, afraid that I would be alone and I would see a puddle of my rejected meal once again on the floor.

But I did not. I saw before me a frighteningly familiar ceiling . . . a stretch of oak, wooden beams, round like a hobbit hole. Like _my_ hobbit hole. Like the bedroom I had lived in since I was born.

I gasped and sat upright, then cried out: it felt like somebody had stuffed my stomach with a pillow that had a great stone at its center, for how solid and yet cushioned it was. I flopped back down, regretting the sharp flow of blood to my head. I pressed a palm against both areas—and then my eyes shot wide open. I sat up slowly this time, staring down at my stomach.

It was a lump. It protruded far enough upward that I could barely see my toes peeking from above it when I sat at a raised angle. I gathered this was perhaps normal for most female hobbits, but I was starved and unhealthy in every way; this made no sense.

I cautiously prodded the lump, and it responded by throbbing painfully. I lay back down to process what had just transpired, but I couldn't bring myself to think about it. At least, though, I was at home. I'd come back to Bag End, and I was safe and alive . . . which I hadn't been sure about for a while, back in Mordor. I was glad to be home, but I didn't know what was wrong with my body. Perhaps it was an illness I would never recover from, some permanent scar the Ring had given me. Perhaps I would be bedridden and unable to eat for the rest of my life.

And thus Sam was all that mattered. Thinking of anything else made me sick—more than usual.

"Sam," I said. I didn't even have to call out for him; just saying his name helped me feel better. "Sam . . . Samwise Gamgee . . ."

It occurred to me that perhaps I was feverish, as I tested out his name all over my tongue, in different tones just to make myself happy. Occasionally I would put my name to his last . . . "Bixbite Gamgee."

Something was definitely wrong with me: tears flooded my eyes at the thought. Could he even want me? I was perfectly useless, worse so now than I ever had been. Perhaps Sam saw me as I wasn't . . . only as the words I said and the things I did, which didn't involve a great deal of what I felt.

I fell in and out of sleep, occasionally finding food and water beside my bed. I ate a few salted apples, surprised that whomever was feeding me knew of them. I confess I was not thinking straight at the time, and didn't process that perhaps Sam had mentioned it to Frodo. But soup appeared as well, soup that seemed to work magic on my body. I felt better already as warmth shivered through my skin. My stomach purred, begging for more, and I finished off three bowls between sleep.

But I woke up at some point while the exchange was being made. I heard a gentle clatter of a heavy bowl against my bedtable—moved within my arm's reach—and my eyes shot wide open. I turned, hoping to see Sam and expecting to see Frodo . . . and I saw a girl.

"Rosie?" I rasped. I winced at the grate in my own voice. "Rosie Cotton?"

She smiled gently at me, not a golden curl out of place. She gave off an angelic air, even dressed in a dress of blued white. The light in my window made a halo around her head, and I reached for her hand.

"Rosie, thank you so much!" I cried as she set down the bowl with a new spoon.

She shook her head and rubbed her hand back on my forehead. "Fever still," she murmured. She reached around the back of my headboard and grabbed a pile of pillows, gently prodding me forward so she could pile the pillows into a recline behind me. I sank into them from my shoulders up, and she set the bowl in my hands.

"You poor dear," she said as I ate. I didn't feel like being pitied, but I was glad someone cared. I smiled weakly at her, and she stroked my hair. Greasy, probably, but I didn't mind. If she was willing to touch me, I wouldn't complain. I couldn't eat fast enough, as though my body finally recognized it was starving.

"You've been through too much," she continued. Her voice softened. "Sam tells me you haven't been well since you got to Mordor."

I nearly spat out my soup. "How did you know about Mordor?!" Then I paused, thinking back on her entire statement. "Did Sam tell you?"

She shook her head. "Frodo did. He told me many things, things that perhaps he never would have." She stared at the floor for a moment, then shook her head once more. I wondered if she felt off; she certainly looked like it. She leaned forward and kissed the top of my curls. "I'll go and get Frodo. He'll want to see you."

Before I could protest, she stepped out. I sighed and sank back into the pillows again, setting my soup aside. As much as I suddenly wanted it, my thoughts kept wandering back to Frodo, to Sam, to Father. I hadn't seen Father in Rivendell, and I hoped he was all right wherever he happened to be now. Perhaps he had come home. But I didn't see him at the Tree either, so he couldn't have.

Minutes later the door burst open, and Sam sprang inside. "Miss Bix!" he cried. He surveyed my face, then leaped forward and cupped it with his hand. I relished in his touch, feeling much better than I had the last time I'd seen or touched him. "Oh, Miss Bix, you look wonderful!"

I didn't believe him. "You do too, Sam." I bit my lip. "Oh, Sam, you're such a sight for sore eyes."

Sam folded me into his arms. I resisted crying out from the jolt in my stomach; apparently it was still in no mood to be handled thus. I rubbed his shoulders.

"Sam, we're alive!" I said. "The future is before us now."

He backed away, and his smile spread sweetly against his cheeks. "I told you love helped, Miss Bix." He paused, glancing me up and down. "Miss Bix, I don't know if you feel right enough for it yet, but . . . well, it's been hard to go through and see you without being able to . . ."

Based on the shade of red in his face, I knew what he was trying to say, and I wouldn't have known how to put it into words either. I pressed a finger over his mouth, and his lips sealed shut at my touch. I leaned up, putting my own mouth against the other side of my finger as I whispered.

"Of course I feel well enough for you, Sam. And the moment I can stand up, I want to marry you." I slipped my finger out of the way and let my lips graze his before retreating by mere centimeters. Sam bit his lower lip as I continued. "I've missed you every moment of my pain without you. Don't leave me; promise you never will."

Sam smiled and kissed me lightly. "I made a promise long ago, Miss Bix."

I wanted to hear him say it again, but I also didn't want to push him. So I leaned up to him and kissed him, easing into his arms. My ears numbed and my entire head became a blur as his lips caressed mine, whispering to me with no words just how much I meant to him. I only hoped he could understand my whispers back.

A soft chuckle sounded from the doorway, and I broke away from Sam to look. Frodo's smile lit up any darkness left in me at that moment.

"You have the most uncanny way of walking in on a kiss," I said.

He shrugged. "I can tell. When your conversation goes quiet, I know exactly what you're doing." He swayed slightly in place, then approached and stood just behind Sam. The gardener backed away, and Frodo leaned over me, squeezing me close to him. I gloried in my little cousin in my grasp, and suddenly the night of the storm, the first night he cuddled up in my bed for comfort like I was his mother, came flooding back to me. I left silent tears on his vest, followed by quiet sobs.

"I didn't know if I would ever see you again," Frodo said. "My sweet girl." His voice sounded as strained as I felt, and that only opened me up more. I kissed his dark hair . . . then pain struck in my stomach. I bit back a cry, collapsing against the bed again. Frodo stood upright and surveyed me; he suddenly looked solemn and frighteningly protective.

He motioned Sam out of the room, hopefully just to go grab something. "Whatever this is," Frodo said, his voice dark, "I plan to figure it out and be done with it. Sam tells me this has been going on for a couple of months now."

I nodded, staring down at my swollen stomach. I almost told Frodo I thought it was the Ring, but I dismissed the idea as absurd: I had undoubtedly just contracted some kind of horrible disease while I was traveling. Resultant of the Ring or no, there had to be some way to remedy it. I swallowed at the idea that I would swell until I exploded if we didn't hurry.

"Gandalf is coming next week," Frodo said. "I prepared him to look at diseases of all kinds; thus I anticipate that he should be able to unravel this."

"The Elves didn't even know," I pointed out. "They did all sorts of things with me, liquids and spells, and they were still confused upon sending me away."

Frodo shook his head. "I am aware. If Gandalf cannot help, I do not know what we can do." Fear trickled into his eyes, and he sat down by my side. His hand found mine, and he squeezed it gently. "Bix, I would do anything to help you. Anything. I've learned for myself, while you've been gone, that you're my family, and my family comes before any other connections or affections I may have. Anything ready to harm you is my enemy, Bix." He brushed my bangs back, and I got a decent look at how intent his eyes were. "Allow yourself to rest, for I am doing all that I can."

I smiled at him. To be honest, I couldn't wait until Sam and I had that kind of responsibility for each other . . . and the day I could truly repay him for all the good that he'd done me. I would do everything to be the best wife possible. As soon as this was over, I knew I could do it.


	13. Burning Veins

I didn't remember falling asleep. I remembered having a nightmare, though, and that awakened me.

 _Sam and Frodo are outside my bedroom. I loved listening to their voices, but not right now: I'm tired and afraid. Sam is confused and afraid. Frodo is angry, angry like I've never heard him before; he doesn't sound like himself—and he is afraid._

 _"_ _Sam, what you have done is unforgivable," Frodo says. He sounds like he's trying to remain civil, but I know he is . . . he's not livid . . . he's devastated with Sam. "I trusted you. I trusted you with everything I had, everything I loved, and you've destroyed it now."_

 _"_ _Mr. Frodo." Sam's voice trembles; he doesn't know what's going on. I want to get up and look out the window, but fear and exhaustion lock me down. "I don't understand. What did I do?"_

 _"_ _You know exactly what you did; you cannot deny the consequences, currently there inside my home, of what you've done. Could I bear to address the atrocity of what you've done out loud—but the hurt is too much. You have defiled her, and now she pays the consequences for your exploitation of her love and trust and my friendship." Tears crack into his voice now. "I thought I knew you, Sam. I can't—why? Why would you do it?" He sounds like forgiving Sam for a moment. "No. Go home, Samwise Gamgee. I will tell no one of the filthy deeds you have done for sake of what our friendship was, but do not think to come back to Bag End."_

 _Sam is walking away, but the footsteps speed up as Frodo's voice escalates. "If you dare set eye on my cousin again, I'll come to you myself and ensure that you are gone for good!"_

 _I want to be upset, horrified, but I feel innate peace. The sting of Frodo's tears streaks down my cheeks, but I feel things will be all right. He wanders back into the house, his steps slow and sorrowful; I turn softly over in my sleep, holding my growing, aching stomach._

Then I actually heard Frodo talking. I feared for a moment as I regained my senses that the dream truly happened, but Frodo was talking to Gandalf, not Sam. I didn't remember Gandalf coming.

"Gandalf, are you certain? Is there nothing we can do?"

My eyes creaked wearily open, as did my door. Rosie stepped in, looking horribly shaken. She swallowed, barely letting her gaze flicker to me, before she set a plate of food down by my bed.

In spite of the fact that I didn't remember eating anything more during my sleep, my stomach looked like an overgrown melon. I slipped my hand under my blouse, a blouse I did not recognize; yes, it truly was so large.

"Don't mind it, Miss Bixbite; we understand now," Rosie said stiffly. "Go on, you'll need all the food you can get. You've been starving yourself. It's no wonder you've felt so sick."

I gave her an odd look and started eating. She shuffled her feet, nervous as though I were a highly dangerous prisoner she were watching over.

"Rosie, what's going on? Are you quite all right?"

Rosie clenched her jaw. "As all right as I can be, Miss Baggins," she said, trembling with . . . anger? Disbelief? Her gaze shot to the door, to me, to the door again before she marched out. "Just call when you've finished your food!" She sounded on the verge of exploding.

I finished eating in silence. I was so confused; I wanted Sam.

Then I paused chewing to hear Rosie talking to Frodo.

"She's awake. You can go in and see her." She stopped. "Frodo, I can't do this anymore. I can't bear the thought."

"Rosie . . ."

Suddenly the front door slammed, and I jolted upright. A sigh escalated from the living room, and in moments Frodo knocked.

"Come in," I said, setting my plate aside.

Frodo slipped inside, not looking at me. He wandered in and stood there for what felt like an eternity. He shuffled more than Rosie did, finally beginning to pace. He stared out the window, and when his eyes finally fell on me he looked away.

"Frodo? Frodo, what's wrong?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Pay it no mind. There's nothing you can do now." He swallowed back a heavy weight of emotion that had almost burst forth; now I was more than confused.

"Nothing I can do? Frodo, what are you talking about?"

"Bixbite Baggins, I can understand that you were so close in your life," Frodo said, his tone mournful and dark. His eyes rose to meet mine at last, and I jumped; there were dark circles under them. His fists collected at his sides. "But you gave yourself away at the last second; did you really think we would never find out? That you could hide the consequences of lust and heavily irresponsible conduct such as yours? And you didn't even make the attempt to conceal yourself! Honestly, Bix." He bit his lip. "It's harsh to yourself, to Sam, to the child, an abuse of every beauty you stood for."

"What child? Frodo, please! What are you talking about?!" I shook my head. "You obviously aren't in a mood to tell me. So did Gandalf find anything wrong with me?"

"Bixbite, that's what I'm telling you." He gestured to my stomach. "He says you are expecting a child." His eyes smoldered.

But I hardly noticed his reaction. I'm not sure if it came from me being female or some inner realization that I was getting on in years, but I was filled with a sudden flurry of excitement. In hindsight I suppose I forgot I was not in fact married to Sam, and that to be expecting was physically impossible, that this would be the child of no one but me alone . . . again, not possible.

"I am?!" A huge smile spread on my face, and Frodo only looked more distressed. As I rejoiced to myself, he stepped out. I brushed my hair back, disbelieving; my daydreams had just occurred. Everything I'd been hoping for since Sam asked me to marry him! At last, our family had become complete, and soon many children would fill the home of Sam and Bix Gamgee.

A few minutes later it hit me: I had envisioned in my mind so many times being married to Sam, of having his children, raising his family and his garden—I realized in that moment that none of it had happened.

My expression fell. Just another daydream, I supposed.

Until I realized just how large my stomach was, and the bursts of pain were perhaps responses from the child inside. My first reaction was one of confusion: whose child was this, if I was not married to Sam and had the utmost belief in fidelity? I didn't understand. Then I panicked: what if I had done something? What if I were in the wrong, without memory or control of the situation?

This predicament made no sense, until I looked at the symptoms: then I realized it was the only conclusion that could make sense. My thoughts spiraled into nightmares, neither living nor awake. What had Frodo done to Sam if he were so upset with me? What could I do to prove that Sam had done no wrong, and neither had I? Sam would never do this to me; his principles and honesty were too great for that, and hopefully so were mine. I was so confused; I didn't know anymore.

My head spun. I screamed in my sleep; the pains grew worse. I became feverish. The days blurred by, sluggishly so I couldn't be finished with this in spite of how the time heaved by. In a daze I remember asking blindly to the air when this would be over. So many voices responded; one I recognized as Gandalf's and the other as Rosie's, another as Frodo's and another as Sam's, one as the Ring's and one as Father's.

"Never." "Two weeks." "Three months." "How many times must you ask, Bix? Eight weeks." "I did not mean to make you carry this burden!" "I love you, Bix." "How could you betray us?"

I cried out for them to stop. The agony in my gut was growing worse, aching and shoving, roiling up inside, like every organ was coated in lava, and the bombardment on my ears was far too much.

Finally I awakened, drenched in sweat. Through my opened window I could see stars. They looked red somehow, perhaps beyond the blur of tears. I could see and feel back to Mordor, to when the ache in my stomach started becoming a sting . . . with the Ring.

"It's not Sam!" I cried, suddenly realizing. I tried to shoot up at my realization, but four hands pressed me back down onto the bed. "You don't understand; it's not Sam!" I persisted. How I had not seen before what had happened, I didn't know. But I supposed later that I didn't have all the evidence I needed to understand.

"My dear, you're having nightmares again," Rosie said, keeping her cool as best one can. Then I realized she wasn't the one in pain; what was going on? "You'll be all right; this first one takes a little while. Just do as I tell you, and you'll be all right."

Agony snapped my stomach, and I screamed. I didn't hear the scream so much as I felt the catharsis of it bursting out, and then another attack of pain, followed by another and another. I felt so much was going wrong; I was sticky, from what I didn't know.

But I had to tell Frodo. He'd hurt Sam, I was sure of it in my feverish stupor, and I had to tell him.

"Sam! It wasn't Sam! Frodo, it wasn't Sam!" Soon the pain shortened my sentences. "Frodo! Sam! Sam!"

Rosie gasped. In my pain I couldn't feel the subtleties of other sounds, the changes in my circumstances. I imagined there was so much going on, for the sudden yelling and urging that filled my ears. Push, they said. Sam, I screamed back. You're doing fine, they said. You don't understand, I tried; it's not Sam.

The agony swelled until I could contain it no longer. My consciousness snapped out of sight and mind with one final scream of his name.

When I awoke, Rosie stood over me still. She dabbed my forehead with a cloth. I felt so tired, but so light and so brilliantly free. The skin of my stomach no longer stretched thin, and the ache in my gut, that had been going on for almost two years, was gone.

"Who is the father, Bixbite?"

My eyes watered as I sat up, dizzily eyeing my baggy tunic. Gandalf sat in the corner, puffing at his long pipe. There was blood and water all over the bed. Rosie and another midwife I did not recognize lifted me off the sheets and over onto a nearby chair.

"Are you all right, miss?" the other young lady asked as Rosie carried the bundle of sheets out.

I nodded shakily.

"Bixbite . . ." Gandalf warned. Then he stared up at the other young lady. "Go on, Estella. And keep everyone else out of here. Go!"

Estella bowed hurriedly, shot me an apologetic look, and scurried out with the velocity to shut the door behind her. Gandalf huffed impatiently, then turned back to me.

"Bixbite. What happened?"

"It wasn't Sam," I persisted.

"I know, I know," Gandalf said, as though he already knew. I cocked my head. "You've been saying that."

"It was the Ring, Gandalf!"

"And the birth was unusual in every sense—what?"

I stood, teetering on my legs, before I crashed over to the tall wizard and clapped my hands down on his shoulders. Finally, he would listen to me. "Gandalf, the Ring. And it wasn't normal at all, you are right; I wouldn't be surprised if the baby doesn't even look like a baby. It was in my stomach instead of the womb, wasn't it?" Epiphany showered me with shock and fear. "It might look like the Ring."

"Bixbite, explain."

I backed away from Gandalf and paced as I poured out what had happened, from the ache in my stomach from here to Mordor. He explained back to me that when he had first discovered my condition, he was confused: the baby had no resemblance to me on any level, and it had come not from the womb, but from my stomach as I had predicted, although I hadn't entirely expected myself to be right. He said everything inside me was permanently damaged: I would never eat normally again, and I could never have children again. He said my blood was blackened as well, and very hot.

At the realization that I could never be a mother again, I barely cared about anything else Gandalf had to say. I sank down onto my bed; the weight had left me, but I felt heavier than I ever had. This all felt so dark and so wrong.

"Gandalf, things aren't meant to be this way," I whispered "Why? Why did this happen?"

Gandalf hesitated. "I fear, Bixbite, that I don't know the answer, and I wonder that we will ever know." He sat down next to me, and I jumped as the bed sank under him; it wasn't exactly built to accommodate men . . . or wizards. "But perhaps this is the price you've paid to keep the rest of the world hopeful. Even if it hadn't happened this way, I'm sure you would have suffered some sort of consequence."

My eyes squeezed shut, remembering what Frodo had spontaneously spouted out the night of his and Father's birthday some seventeen or eighteen years ago. Almost twenty, I realized; I'd been unconscious a great deal of this last year. Just a child, Frodo had given his cake to Rosie Cotton, since she never got any before it was all gone. He told me then that little phrase of his, how everything good you do comes with a little cost and great rewards.

I asked him, flustered by his sudden spout of knowledge, what reward he expected. He just shrugged.

"Doing good deeds and getting the reward is better when you don't expect something in return," he said. I murmured right along with him as his words came back to me, here with Gandalf. "Sometimes you won't recognize it, so it's better not to ask. But later you'll be grateful . . . right, Bix?"

A knock echoed through the wood of my door, and before Gandalf could shoo whomever was behind the door I called for them to come in.

The hesitation that followed beckoned me to stand and open it for them, but I found I didn't have the strength. I sank onto my bed again, and Gandalf reluctantly opened the door. Rosie stepped inside, a glow in her cheeks. But as I studied her, I realized the glow was utterly marred: she wanted to be happy, and something in her was happy. Perhaps the darkness in my own mind was what marred it, for she seemed so utterly sincere and excited.

"Here you are, Bix," she whispered, lowering a damp bundle into my arms. I stared up at her, questioning, before I heard a little squeak from within the bundle. I startled; my gaze fell to a perfectly formed little baby in my arms, with flawless skin of softly pale . . . gold, I realized. It—he, I wanted to say—looked unnatural. Too ideal. Dangerous. I couldn't stop my shock.

His eyes fluttered open. It, I had to remind myself: I didn't know what it was yet. Thick blond lashes framed bronze eyes. He—it—smiled coyly at me, too old and knowing for the youth of this creature. I froze when a hint of coldness accompanied his expression.

"What are you going to name him?" Rosie asked gently.

I stared up at her. "So it is a boy?"

"Yes," Rosie said. "Did you not hear me, then?"

I shook my head slowly. "Hear you . . . just now? Before you asked what I would name him?"

She nodded. Gandalf had left the room, I realized. She bit her lip, then embraced me. "Then I'll tell you again. Bixbite, I was so happy when Gandalf said you were still upright. I couldn't believe you had ever done anything wrong."

"I'm not perfect," I managed, rubbing her back with a shaking hand. I didn't want to drop it—er, him. Him. My fingers flexed against his tiny body. How strange, to think this was my child. Perhaps the Ring might have claimed it completely, it being a consequence of magic and magic alone, but now the Ring was gone. The child was mine.

"But Frodo thinks you are." Rosie knelt by my side and traced the baby's head gently. He settled off to sleep with a sly grin, followed by a rather natural and innocent yawn. I shuddered to think that perhaps traits of the Ring were blended with mine. "He loves you," Rosie pressed, getting me to tear my gaze from the baby. "Please try to understand; he'll probably be very upset; I know most people can't tell, but you know him well, so you'll see right through him, as I have learned to do in your absence. But he doesn't understand, and he just wants what's best for you."

I attempted a smile at her. "I know he does, and I'm sure he'll be distraught. I suppose I must tell him what has happened—," Then I halted. My eyes grew wide. "Oh, Rosie, what has become of my dear Sam?!"  
Rosie went a little pale. "Frodo sent him away," she said. "The first thing Sam said when he came inside was that it was all his fault, and I suppose he meant something and Frodo understood another. Frodo . . . I've never seen him so angry. He took Sam outside. I ran home before I heard anything; I couldn't bear to see them like that."

"Please, go get Sam!" I pleaded. "And Frodo. I want to explain what happened, to both of them."

"Frodo is out to town," Rosie said. "Or so he said; I truly think he went out to clear his head, the moment I told him the baby was born." She stroked the boy's head absentmindedly. "As for Sam . . . I shall go get him." She smiled gently, then stood and framed my jaw. "My dear, Gandalf told me a great deal, and so did your rambling during your nightmares. I'm so proud of you for being so brave."

She kissed the top of my head and turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Have you thought of a name for him, Bixbite?"

I paused, staring down at him. I didn't have the heart to name him Bilbo, or Frodo, or Samwise. I thought of the names I knew, and knew they would do no good. Sauron would do no good either, not any name of Mordor or the language of that country.

"I do not know," I said. Then my mind wandered to our Elvish books. We had a particularly old edition of an ancient story, when Elves did not care for the ways of hobbits and thus never studied them. One Elf took it upon himself to write about hobbits, and came up with a ridiculous name for his side character that was a hobbit: Cohco. The character, in spite of his peculiar naming, was a complex creature, in the background, beautiful for a hobbit but mysterious and prone to dark acts. But he came out a hero in the end, so I thought the name fit nicely.

"Cohco."

Rosie's eyebrows shot up, but the skepticism vanished in a moment, replaced by a brilliant, sincere smile.

"I think it fits him," she said. Unusual, I gathered was her connection between name and child. "Go on and get some rest, Bixbite; I'll go and find Sam for you." With that she spun out the door and was gone.

I only hoped she would bring Sam back soon; I could at least apologize on Frodo's behalf, and then I would have someone to help me raise this child.


	14. Cohco

As I held the sleeping Cohco in my arms, I kept my gaze elsewhere in the room; I didn't want to look at him. He wasn't mine at all; if anything, I was obviously just a vehicle by which Sauron's soul could survive, a pawn, a prop. I was grateful, though, that I was not the one holding Sauron's soul. This probably wasn't even a hobbit child at all.

But soon the child began to cry, for what I did not know. He looked so much more real with a red face and a gaping mouth. I panicked suddenly, emotions flaring from maternal instinct I'd never known to help this baby in whatever capacity I could manage.

I discovered that he wanted to eat; it was only a matter of minutes before he fell asleep in my arms again, sucking on my finger. I cocked my head, still watching him, and suddenly a love I didn't understand blossomed in my heart. I smiled and pressed a kiss to the child's forehead. When his eyes opened, they looked natural. I wondered if this would stay, or if he would oscillate.

"Sweet little Cohco," I gushed. Was this how it felt to be a real mother? Was there any difference I was missing? I stroked his head; he had dark hair like mine already growing in. I talked to him constantly; he couldn't speak back, and I wondered if I had to do something special to teach him, or how long it would take him to get the habit.

I hardly noticed the time going by; I was busy, unsure, exhausted, but thrilled by this prospect of new life. I enjoyed taking care of Cohco so much, in spite of all the mistakes I made and how little I knew about what I was doing, that I didn't realize it had been three days since I'd seen a single soul, feeding and washing this child, learning what he meant when he wanted something. I sat with him, eating my dinner while he rested on my lap, when Frodo slipped in the door. Cohco was quiet about half the time, thankfully, but the other half I either had to calm him or discover by trial and error what he wanted. His wails never got huge . . . unless he wanted food.

Frodo startled when he saw me, and his gaze shot to Cohco. His eyebrow rose, but it might have creased rather for the anxiety in his eyes.

"Bix . . ."

I smiled up at Frodo, exhausted, sweaty, and having gotten no sleep for the past few nights. "There are biscuits and a handful of sausages left," I said before turning back to my food.

He continued watching me queerly before he stepped into the kitchen. I grinned at Cohco; this child was bound to me, I knew. I thought about the effort and pain in my body and mind for bringing him here: there was no Ring anymore. He was all mine.

Frodo cleared his throat after he bit into a large biscuit. "My apologies for being away so long; I had to see to officiating affairs in Buckland."

Cohco yawned, and I rubbed his head, rocking myself until he drifted back to sleep. He sucked on my finger, in that repetitive way he had whenever he slept. "Officiating affairs? Why?"

Frodo glanced down at Cohco again, his expression tainted with disapproval. "Bix, you may want to come sit down somewhere more comfortable." He stood, leaving the rest of his food, and stepped backwards towards the living room. "It's quite a long story."

I cocked my head . . . then conceded that I should listen to Frodo. Cohco would be fine in bed, although he had a tendency to roll towards the edge, so I had a fortress of pillows against the wall and various chairs and cushions bordering my bed.

"One moment," I said. "I'll put Cohco down first." I slid out from the table, careful not to awaken my son, and took him into the other room. I kissed his head before setting him down; I hoped he'd be all right alone. I'd hardly left his side in the past few days, and I felt like I was parting with a piece of my own body. I left the door a crack open so I could hear him if anything went wrong.

I sat next to Frodo on the couch before the fire, at which point he immediately stood and leaned over the fireplace. He stared into the flames as he spoke.

"The moment I awakened I went to follow you," Frodo said. I realized then that he still didn't understand the truth about Cohco, but I couldn't interrupt him now. His eyes blazed with the passion he felt for storytelling, which had never become as brazen out loud as the strength and heat that simmered inside. "You were perhaps long gone, but I do not know: I traveled the main road, which Gandalf had instructed you not to do, but I hoped you would take the easy route.

"I wandered with Rosie for a while before we realized you were too far ahead and too difficult to track. I assume you were already gone if you did not hear the news: a new wizard had come to Bree, a white wizard, not gray as Gandalf was. He'd come for the Shire, or so I learned: he hired mercenaries while he dwelled in Bree, and then he came seeking slaves, power, and resources."

Frodo continued to explain how a great war had taken place while I was away; the great and evil wizard—Saruman, Frodo told me his name was—had abandoned his mission when the Ring disconnected from its master. The War of the Ring had ended the moment, I realized, that the Ring began to take shelter in me. Sauron kept weakly battling, but Saruman had given up: he felt the power depart. Frodo showed me a pile of old parchment, documents recording Saruman's departure from Isengard.

Then Frodo went on: many hobbits were slaughtered, others robbed, some tortured. Frodo had been planning to flee for help, but Rosie Cotton started a resistance and an army with the help of Merry and Pippin, who had been captured by Saruman and brought back when the Ring could not be found. Rosie managed missions and healing; soon Frodo helped her fight back. His voice softened as he spoke of his work with her. Times were trying, he said, and everyone could be seen clearly for exactly what they were.

"I must have depressed her so," he said. "I was worried about you, afraid for Sa—well, for everyone. She kept a bright heart, issuing instructions to rescue hobbits and retrieve supplies." He shook his head wonderingly. "She was _amazing_ , Bix; surviving through all of that, watching those around her be killed member by member, seeing the burned farms and the torn lives, the broken bodies and hopeless odds."

"Where is she now?" I pressed. I knew he loved her; I was sure she liked him. I hoped.

Frodo's gaze fell, and he tapped the floorboards with his toes. "She feels I do not treat you fairly," he said. He seemed indecisive about how he felt; his eyes flickered back and forth, assessing options and weighing ethics. Finally his eyes narrowed. "And I confess I've been unsure and distraught." His eyes curtly captured mine, glaring. "But I feel I have been right to consider the situation so; tell me, if you can, that you are not at fault." His voice cracked a little, and his gaze flickered to my bedroom door.

I stood, keeping the smile from my face; I was so happy he would finally understand. Then we could go and find Sam, get me married before rumors about my child started to circulate. I could just keep him away from people.

But what were the chances some family member or midwife client had heard Rosie and Estella would be helping me that day? My heart sank; no doubt the entire Shire knew by now. I would deny rumors if I heard them, assuming they were exaggerated and untrue.

I shook the thoughts out of my head—I could only deal with a few problems at a time.

"Frodo, my son has no father."

Frodo's eyes widened, then narrowed again. I pointed to the couch, and Frodo skeptically sat down. He stared at me, rigid as though he would leave the conversation any minute. I started rambling about how I'd been feeling an aching pain ever since I took on the Ring, that by magic and wickedness that I didn't understand, I had given birth, probably to a child that maintained the soul of Sauron and the Ring within it.

Frodo didn't seem to hear most of it. He stared at the fire, shaking his head over and over.

"Sam did nothing. And neither did you," he muttered. His eyes sank shut.

I leaned down and embraced Frodo. "But what else would you have believed without explanation? This perhaps has never happened to anyone else."

"I confess it made no sense," Frodo said. He didn't embrace me back, so I slacked onto the couch. "I am glad for you, but I'm afraid it's a little late for complete reparation of any damage done. I wish you would have told me sooner; Sam has disappeared."

I stood. "Disappeared?" Thousands of questions filled my mind: where would he go? Of course Frodo was upset with him, but why would he leave? He wasn't the sort to just abandon his friends.

"He left a parchment on his table in his main room," Frodo said, his eyes glazing. "I went to apologize to him two weeks after we found out you were expecting; I felt even after what I thought Sam had done I should have been easier on him, not threatened to expose him as aggressive in front of the entire Shire. Although I didn't feel comfortable with him seeing you again. In hindsight I should have had him marry you to take responsibility for what I thought he'd done.

"Regardless . . . the day I went to apologize I discovered that he was gone. He expressed his deepest apologies and vowed he would never wrong his greatest friends again." Had I ever seen Frodo cry before, I would have expected him to now, but he didn't. "I don't know where he went or why."

If Frodo said anything else on the subject, I didn't hear it. Sam was gone. My Sam. Every hope for my future, every dream I'd let wander into my mind beyond the point of adulthood, was ended. Cohco was all I had left of my journey, of the growth of my love for Sam. I wanted to go and find him, but I couldn't leave my son, and I had no idea where to start.

"Where would he go?" I murmured, staring at the flames. I thought about the fact that I'd lost Father, but at least I knew Father was safe, resting in Rivendell. Then my brow furrowed. I hoped I could be there when he finally passed away.

A sting filled my chest, and I winced; the Weathertop wound on my left ached with cold, and the sting of the spider only added to my pain. I rubbed the former, hoping to take away the ache.

Frodo slipped his hand under mine, and the innate strength of hands larger than my own quelled the cold, briefly. I wondered why, why the injuries I'd sustained from my quest hurt now.

"We'll find him," Frodo assured me. "He wouldn't have gone far."

"You don't know where he's been," I murmured. "He's been all over the world, Frodo. He could have gone anywhere, as far from here as possible if he wished."

"If he's anywhere in the Shire, I promise he will be found," Frodo insisted. He tipped my head up towards his, straining Shelob's sting. "I'll look for him myself. And I will help you care for your child. I truly did want the best for you all this time, Bix."

I rubbed his shoulder. "I know."

After a quiet moment, I felt I could stand up again, and I led Frodo to my room. Cohco lay squeezed against the cushions on the edge of my bed, undoubtedly ready to fall over the side of the couch if he could. I suddenly remembered that swan at Tom Bombadil's . . . but I had no companion to help me take care of Cohco. Frodo would have to do for now. But if what little hope I had left came to fruition, he would soon find himself married to Rosie Cotton. Unfortunately, that would leave no time for him to be a father figure for Cohco.

Frodo studied Cohco for a long moment, then finally skirted around me. He barely made a sound on the wood floor. His fingertips traced across the boy's face. He scooped up a blanket from the floor, tucking Cohco tenderly away from the cushions at the bedside. I'd never seen Frodo do that before; I wondered what had changed while I was gone.

"What is his name?" Frodo whispered, his attention suddenly bent on my son.

"Cohco," I said. Frodo gave me a strange look that flicked away as soon as it came. "It came from a novel I read, a long time ago."

He smiled. "Cohco," he tried. Then he stepped out with me.

It was only a manner of minutes before Cohco awakened, crying out. It sounded somewhere between his "hold-me-and-walk-around" cry and his absent, constant cry. I assumed, then, that he perhaps felt lonely.

I made a more substantial meal, and was right in the middle of stirring stew when he started crying. I moved to grab him, but Frodo shot up from the couch as though Cohco were his life's mission and raced into the bedroom. I strained my ears over the bubbling of soup below me, and I heard Frodo quieting Cohco.

As though he had done this before.

It amazed me when Cohco quieted at last, and Frodo casually stepped back into the kitchen; Cohco rested peacefully in Frodo's arm and softly sucked on my cousin's finger.

"Impressive," I said. I managed to keep a flame of jealousy down, wondering how Frodo took so innately to this when Cohco was _my_ son, and I'd felt that burning to take care of the offspring that was mine. I set a bowl of stew in front of Frodo, and he easily shifted Cohco's weight and started eating as though he were completely free. "How do you manage it?"

Frodo paused before taking another bite. "Rosie taught me. While you were gone, many parents were killed, died of starvation or were simply massacred by orcs. Some pregnant women hadn't the sustenance to survive beyond childbirth, so I had to take care of thirteen children, here in Bag End for months while Rosie organized and led everyone else outside."

I paused, glancing down at Cohco, and at how relaxed Frodo looked. "So this must be easy for you."

Frodo smiled with a loving glow at Cohco. "I learned just how precious children are, Bix. Their innocence and their innate pride . . . they are so strong and brave for creatures so young, and they have nowhere else to go." His face fell. "Six of the boys, some in their twenties but most younger than that, died defending Bag End. Their fathers, most of them, were killed within the first few days. They had sweethearts that were working with Rosie." He bit his lip. "Meddie was planning to marry that young Proudfoot lass. He was five weeks shy of thirty-three, Bix . . . and her family was ill, dying. He could have taken care of them if I'd let him follow Rosie." His spoon clattered against the table, and his eyes shot wide open. "He was eaten by wolves, after they shot him. Wolves, Bix! I couldn't even take the body to the Proudfoots. I should have died, not him."

For a long silence, filled with nothing but Frodo's heavy breaths and the stirring of Cohco, I couldn't speak. I thought I had seen horrors; he had been exposed to the decay and destruction of the innocent and the hopeful. I'd been so selfish in thinking that my problems were the worst of them. I'd had one child that was now healthy and happy with the evil source of its creation destroyed: Frodo had to watch the children of suffering mothers be raised as orphans, feel the blood in his hands and see the bodies of hobbits wrecked by wolves.

I wondered what else he had seen. Frodo perceived everything; he had such a childlike way of taking _everything_ in, and I realized this battle, this war, must have been worse than he would ever let on.

"Frodo, I'm sorry," I said at last. He exhaled powerfully and began eating again, shaking his head.

"Bix, it's all right." He stared up at me, his eyes piercing right through me. "You had more to worry about; Rosie tells me giving birth is the worst pain in the world. She says she hasn't done it yet, of course, but after amputating limbs and watching hobbits be slaughtered, she said childbirth always resulted in more screams, more sweat, and more anguish." Then he smiled. "But it's so miraculous, Bix, to see the mother's face when she's finished."

The idea of Rosie giving birth opened my mouth right up. "Frodo, do you think Rosie will ever be a mother?"

Frodo choked briefly, staring up at me. He looked like he wished he could choke to death. His face abruptly blossomed bright pink before he turned back to his stew. "Perhaps someday. She is very good with children, and a beautiful lass that will find a suitable marriage when she puts her mind to it."

"Frodo, you know what I meant! I know you love her, and I know she loves you." All right, I didn't _know_ for sure, but I did have a decent amount of stuttering and smiles to back it up, from both of them. "When are you going to ask her to marry you?"

"I did; three times," Frodo said. His fist clenched around his spoon, but he quickly relaxed it. But his eating sped up significantly. "The first was right before I left on a dangerous mission. The second time, she was coming out of a coma . . . I should have waited. The third was the night after I sent Sam away. I asked her to marry me every time because I felt I couldn't wait another minute; I needed her constantly, but the only way to let her stay was to marry her." He shook his head. "We'd discussed it dozens of times. I can't describe our first kiss to you, Bix, or any other after that. I'm sure it would have been the right thing to do, to wait."

I stared at him blankly, unsure if I wanted to ask what had happened. He didn't usually let me know when he didn't want to say anything; he told me what of the truth I needed to hear, or said the only information he thought necessary to keep me satisfied and from asking more.

But as I thought whether to ask him or not, it finally concluded in my head.

"Rosie knew what happened to me," I muttered. "And she thought—she thought you were being too hard, didn't she?"

"Too hard on Sam," Frodo corrected. "They were friends when they were younger, and she insisted, before she knew anything about you, that I should talk to Sam. I thought she was defending him . . ." He paused. "Well, I was suspicious that she cared for him more than she cared for me this entire time. I finally told her so." His gaze flickered to the table surface. Cohco's eyes opened briefly, and Frodo gently ushered them shut with his fingertips. "I haven't spoken to her since."

I saw a clear solution to all of this, and thought Frodo should too; I decided heartbreak must be blinding, as he had acted so rashly when he discovered I was expecting. But I didn't want to jump too quickly into expressing my feelings to appear optimistic or hurried about his psychological situation. To be honest, however, I felt both.

"Can't you talk to her now? Everything has been cleared up, hasn't it? I mean, you know Sam finished his courtship with her long ago, and he and I have clarified between each other that there are no residual feelings between them," I tried.

"Bix, she went looking for Sam," he said. "She obviously still cares about him, and I did him a wrong. I fear she will always be looking for him."

I sighed; so much for keeping Frodo informed about things. I wondered if I'd ever be done telling him what he missed . . . or if he would ever feel I knew anything about what he'd been through in my absence.

"She went after him because I asked her to," I said, exasperated. "I told her I wanted to apologize to Sam for all that's transpired, and she was supportive of my decision. Do you know where she is? I think you should talk to her even if she hasn't found him yet."

Frodo shook his head. "I tracked her for a while; Pippin and Merry kept an eye on her, but she left West Farthing yesterday. She's been visiting every house."

My eyebrow shot up. "Is she aware you've been stalking her?"

"She taught every hobbit how to keep and avoid surveillance. Merry and Pippin have both been acknowledged by her, openly. She knows she's being watched."

A husky tone crept into his voice, like he was revisiting an old lifestyle. I realized as his finger subconsciously traced over my baby that he had fallen into that crevice, that I was watching his memories of war and the horror of it play in his eyes. He winced, then set his expression hard again. His gaze fell, lost from nostalgia, and he continued eating.

"Frodo," I said, reaching for his hand. He didn't look up at me. "We'll find Rosie. I promise. And then you should tell her what happened and propose to her immediately." I smiled. "Because with how well you're handling Cohco, you need a family of your own."

Frodo gave me a sweet smile; I almost thought he meant it. But after I looked a little deeper, I realized it didn't turn up as much as it ought to have, that it didn't look quite right.

"Frodo, please trust me. I'll find her if you won't."

Frodo's brow furrowed. "You're a mother. Nothing takes priority over that; don't worry. I'm sure she'll come back. And I do trust you. I just find it hard to have hope at a time like this."

I ruffled his hair. "It's already starting to look up. I'm sure everything will be fine."


	15. Father Frodo

**Diem Kieu: Thanks! :D Yeah, and the rest of this will probably be a lot to catch up on too . . . we'll have to see. I just got back from camping, so I've been taking a break today. So hopefully I can get this finished. XD DFTYA!**

Frodo cared for Cohco as though the child was his own. I didn't know the first thing about these matters, but Frodo seemed to have no qualms in teaching me. And Cohco didn't give that strange, sadistic, grown look he'd given me on the day of his birth; he acted normal, at least for the first few weeks.

In hindsight, the day he acted up again shouldn't have been any surprise at all: the entirety of Bag End was on edge. Rosie hadn't contacted us at all. As a matter of fact, Pippin and Merry followed her to the Brandywine, where she told them she was leaving the Shire, that they should stop following her. Frodo was worried about her, and I feared what Rosie's departure spelled for Sam. If he'd left the Shire, chances were not good of them coming back, any time soon much less for the foreseeable future. Frodo was also not feeling too well, and we were running low on food; I would have to go out into the Shire, probably now better than later. But I wasn't ready to face other hobbits again, after my disappearance and possible rumors of my childbirth.

I hoped my departure wouldn't weigh too heavily; Frodo truly didn't feel well, and subsequently I felt awful. My wounds prickled with irritation at the tension in my mind.

Cohco didn't awaken from his afternoon nap for over fifty minutes, which was not typical for him at all. I stepped in to check on him . . . only to find him smiling at me with surreal age and sadism. His eyes were bright gold, unusually so.

"Cohco?" I said. "Are you all right?"

He just continued to smile at me. He looked so terrifying, and suddenly my motherly instincts dripped out of my ears and didn't come back. I scooped him off the bed, shaking; he didn't remind me of the Ring specifically, just of everything awful and wrong.

"Frodo?" I asked, stepping out of the room. It was as though I'd forgotten how to hold Cohco, or he were suddenly covered in some kind of slimy material . . . perhaps made of said slimy material.

Frodo glanced up from the couch. His eyes were bleary, but he had not yet shown any symptoms other than a cough. I assumed he was mostly just exhausted.

"Frodo, is this normal? I mean . . ." I sighed. "I'm a little concerned."

Frodo's brow creased. He held out his arms; they trembled as he moved, and I hesitated to give Cohco to him until I stared down at the child's expression again. I needed Frodo's assurance with this, if he had any to give me.

But the moment I lowered my son into Frodo's arms, I panicked: Cohco's eyes grew angry, and he abruptly rolled over and bit Frodo. He only had one tooth by that point, but it sank right into Frodo's wrist. My cousin just inhaled sharply, yanking his arm out from within Cohco's reach, but I cried out. I didn't know if I was afraid for Frodo, or of Cohco, or upset with my son or with myself for carrying the Ring for so long, but the moment I yelled, Cohco's eyes drifted back to their normal color. He immediately began to cry, but when Frodo offered his finger Cohco calmed just as quickly.

Frodo nonchalantly surveyed the welling puncture on his wrist, but when he turned to me his exhausted eyes shimmered with worry. "I've never seen that before," he said, "but considering his background I'm not surprised, to be frank."

The maternal instinct I'd lost earlier came flooding back to me. I barely restrained the urge to tower over Frodo; I might have given him a solid glare at the very least, a lunge for him at the worst.

"There's nothing wrong with him," I insisted darkly. "The Ring is gone, and he's my son; if he got anything negative from the Ring, he must have inherited something from me as well." Then I glanced down at the puddle of blood against Frodo's skin. I sighed, brushing it away with the hem of my dress. "I'm sorry about that. I hope . . . I hope you don't ever find it within you to hate him for his heritage."

Frodo shook his head. "Of course not." He sighed. "But I'm afraid others will. Bix, you can't keep him in here forever. He's growing up unnaturally quickly; teeth usually don't appear for at least a few months. And I see age in him that is completely unwarranted by experience and development. Again, completely unnatural. He'll be out of the house before you can do anything; you can't train him to stay inside, and he'll be easy to lose track of."

I stared down at Cohco. Frodo hadn't told me he was growing quickly; I'd measured him and realized he'd grown ten centimeters in the last day, but I didn't know that was unusual by any means: I had no experiences with children, much less children this young.

"Frodo, I didn't know," I admitted, sitting down next to him. "But you're right; I need to go into the market sooner or later." I felt his forehead. "You could have a fever coming on."

His brow furrowed. "I'm fine, Bix," he said, setting Cohco down on my lap. My son flailed, searching the air for Frodo's knowing touch again. When he moaned, Frodo offered his hand.

"But you told me I ought to go out for food," I said. "I thought you were implying you were sick. And you are sick, I'm sure of it."

"I wanted you to go outside so that you knew, in spite of all that's happened to you, that you could do it." Frodo slacked back, letting his head rest on the couch. He looked like he had a miserable headache. "I'm just afraid for Rosie, that's all."

"And you're sick," I insisted. I felt his forehead again; now that I hadn't anything to worry about with Cohco for the present, I realized there was no debate that Frodo was burning up.

"Lie down," I insisted. "I'll be going into town today, and I'll get you some medicine." I tried to take Cohco from Frodo, but my son persistently remained in Frodo's arms, and my cousin gave me an obstinate stare.

"At least let me take care of him while you are out," Frodo retaliated.

I lowered my hands. "All right." Nervous tremors scattered up my back, stiffening me into numb submission: I wasn't getting out of this. No magical force was going to bring Sam back and have him offer to go into town with me . . . Sam much less Rosie. Cohco wasn't going to magically be hidden from the eyes of the public. Frodo was right.

I slipped my cloak over my shoulders and marched into the warped dream of what I had once known, a Shire riddled with suspicion and torn by war. I hadn't even dared look outside since I learned about Frodo's experiences, afraid the streets would be riddled with blood and strewn with bodies.

But the moment I stepped outside, the smell of roses washed over me: the Shire looked beautiful, renewed beyond what I had known before. The porch of Bag End was covered with baskets of gifts and flowers. I hoped there would be food, but all I could find wouldn't be good for Frodo's illness: he needed vegetables. Potatoes, soup, water. I found a few seasonings in the baskets, grateful I wouldn't have to be out for as long as I had at first anticipated.

As I walked, my confidence grew: little children with curly hair ran around, lads throwing pinecones at each other and lasses sowing or gathering their younger siblings for afternoon tea. The Shire looked advanced, springing out of adversity with all the strength hobbits never knew they had. I never saw one smidge of red on the roadside, not one weapon, not one trace of Saruman's touch here. Parents stood outside, working in the cheery sun as though never had a strange care come to them, but I was sure every single one had horrifying stories about the war.

I didn't let that bother me. I almost skipped to the barter market, Father's traveling satchel slung over my shoulder. I felt so optimistic and bright about the world; even if everything wasn't right at this moment, everything could be right: life could change. It would change, and I welcomed the idea of a new scene in my life.

I stepped up to a little tarp-shielded booth under the shade of a small tree; suddenly hobbits bustled around me, hustling to get their goods and be gone, or to sell what they had to sell, or to gather their children while they attempted to make a complex purchase without being robbed any change.

"Hello, Miss; what can I do for you?" the elderly farmer asked. He squinted at me, then glanced down at his array of vegetables, likely to scope out where everything was so he didn't take more time locating what I would need; I'd seen older farmers do it before, especially Sam's father.

"Good afternoon," I said. "I just need a half dozen of carrots, potatoes, and onions, as well as a generous scoop of mushrooms."

The farmer's eyes widened as he located the various vegetables. I handed him my satchel, and he began carefully counting everything out. "Must be a rich young lady," the farmer murmured. "And what family might you be from?"

I accepted the satchel back with a quiet thanks and offered him a fistful of coins; I didn't care to count them out, I knew it was more than enough. "I come from Bag End, sir; I'm Frodo Baggins's cousin, Bixbite."

The farmer smiled. "Master Baggins . . . good lad. He saved my farm during the war." He held up a trembling finger, not quite looking at my eyes but somewhere beyond them. "Don't take him for granted, Miss Baggins," he said. "I repeat to ye, he's a good lad. Thank him for old Farmer Noffel when you get off home."

"Thank you, Farmer Noffel; I'll tell him," I reassured the elderly man.

"Whore!" a shrill voice cried. I jumped, afraid the voice was addressing me, but when I turned around no one was there. I realized the voice had come from in front of me, and I realized an older lass, probably Farmer Noffel's wife, was pointing at me and dragging her husband away. "Filth! You wretch, get away from my vegetables! She's a whore, I tell you, Bungo!"

I backed away, stuttering an apology, but Mrs. Noffel turned her cries from me to the rest of the gathered hobbits. "Wretch! It's Mad Baggins; drive her away!"

I scrambled back, but not far before a rock cracked against my knee. I yelped in spite of myself, and turned to run as jeers and tomatoes followed me back down the road. I glanced back fleetingly, only to see a gawk on Farmer Noffel's face.

Before I even reached home, the tears refused to stop flowing, and I'd lost a carrot or two on the way. I might have gone back to get them if I weren't suddenly hit by my disgrace: I remembered being a little girl and being taught about what we did with children born out of wedlock. We were to shun them, and their parents as well, for they had done an awful deed.

Awful deed they had done, I knew, but now I realized, regardless of what they had done, shunning was not right. And I couldn't argue my case now; I had done no wrong, but now the whole Shire believed I had no discipline and no moral, no respect for life or for my own self.

I slipped quietly back into the house, and I heard deep breathing. I smiled to myself as I walked in on a sleeping Frodo, Cohco tucked neatly against his chest. Cohco couldn't help but be at peace with Frodo, somehow. I didn't understand it. I knew Frodo was good with children after practice during a strained time, but he said most children were only akin to loving their own parents so much.

I stroked the heads of the two handsome lads in my house and grinned; even if I didn't have the rest of the world, I had what part of the world I needed. I glanced back at the door; it would be a difficult push, making it through this life without going outside again, or hiding whenever visitors arrived.

"They did not care to see you, did they?"

I glanced back at Frodo. His eyes were bloodshot, but he managed a sympathetic tone anyway. Then he coughed, restraining what he could and turning his head away from Cohco.

"No," I admitted. I continued into the kitchen and set my sack down, then proceeded to cut up the food. Life felt so simple in this one moment, until I let my thoughts wander to Mrs. Noffel, and to Sam, back to Mordor where my life had been changed forever. The knife sank onto the table, and I sank into my chair. "Farmer Noffel told me to thank you for all you had done during the war." I buried my forehead in my hand; Cohco was the best thing that had happened to me since Sam proposed to me. Why did he have to represent everything wrong?

"And his wife knew about you," Frodo mused.

My head shot straight up. "How did you know?"

"I went over to the Noffels with food before I came home to see Cohco for the first time," he said, stepping up from the couch. He teetered briefly on his feet, and Cohco's eyes flickered open. I moved to steady him, but he sat down next to me before I could force him back to the couch. "She was distressed; she learned that Rosie had helped you, and she became so indignant at the fact that she hadn't been invited to the wedding that never happened . . . that it slipped out." Frodo's eyes fell to the floor, but not for long. "Bix, I'm so sorry; Rosie and Estella never said anything to anyone. They swore never to, and I was the one to let it free."

I processed for as long a moment as I could stand, hopefully giving him the impression that I was thinking hard about forgiving him, but I already knew I wouldn't despise whomever had started rumors about my childbirth: I had made that decision long before. The only people that knew about my condition were people I didn't want to lose.

"Frodo," I said. I covered his hand with mine, the one that rested against my son's back. Cohco stirred, discontented for one reason for another, but before I took a step to figure out why I finished my statement. "It's all right. I knew they would find out, and I've been prepared for that ever since you told me I was expecting."

Suddenly I had an urge to ask about Sam, or Rosie, but before I could say anything Cohco's faint moans turned to full-out wails; he was hungry, or something close to that. I would probably have to experiment and find out.

"He hasn't eaten all day," Frodo said quickly, handing him to me quickly. "But you should probably start feeding him actual food in the next week or so."

I paused; I would miss feeding him myself, but I knew doing that for much longer would be impossible. I didn't have to know why, but Frodo was always right about these things. I thanked my cousin and trotted to my bedroom.

After a decent struggle Cohco finally decided to eat, and I confess I was stressed the entire time; he had a tooth now, after all. By the time I finished and found a string of bells for Cohco to occupy himself with, I didn't want to go back out there and make soup, but I realized this was the case for every mother: I might have had my first child in my fifties, but that was no excuse, for I was still decently young. I just felt old . . . stretched. I felt like I was the matriarch of a huge family, that I'd already done my share and required help now. But I didn't, looking back: I had just taken a Ring to a volcano, nothing like caring for multiple children at once, now that I knew what it was like to care for just one.

The moment I stepped into the hall, Cohco balanced in my arms and solidly occupied by the bells, a waft of perfectly seasoned soup flooded my nose. I stood there to just take in what I thought was my imagination, hoping my own stew would turn out that way. But I stepped into the kitchen, and the stew was made. Three bowls were dished out on the table, and a huge pot filled with the steaming stew stood in the middle of the table.

"Where do you suppose Frodo went, Cohco?" I mused. And I wondered if Frodo meant "now" as in "a few days," regarding when Cohco should start eating. Then I heard ecstatic voices, with an innate pause between words, followed by a couple of soft clicks. My eyebrow shot upright; it sounded like it was coming from outside.

I stepped up to the front window, and then I grew more confused; I could see a little bit of Frodo's back, but that was it. I eased closer to the window, and a gasp caught in my throat: Rosie stood there as well, and they were locked in a tender, deep kiss.

I smiled and backed away with Cohco; he was too young to see that.


	16. Wedding Worth Waiting For

Rosie ate with us that night, never letting go of Frodo's hand. She doted on Cohco, and expressed how grateful she was that I was well.

"Where is Sam?" I asked hopefully.

Rosie shook her head, lowering her filled spoon back into her bowl. Frodo sympathetically squeezed her fingers; a gleam of admiration lingered in his gaze that I'd never seen before. Suddenly I saw a common ambition in him—he was usually never like other lads, but in this he wanted her every bit as much as any male ever wanted a counterpart.

Rosie interrupted my thoughts. "Sam crossed the Brandywine three days ago," she said. "He got a horse while he was in Bree; I tried to get one as well, but apparently he already had rights to a pony gelding named Bill or some such. I tried also to hire someone to follow Sam . . . but I was refused at every turn." She shook her head.

"Did you ever talk to him?" I asked, careful not to sound too urgent.

Rosie shook her head again. "I asked Pippin and Merry if they could get ahead of me, a few times, and talk to him. They never had the chance; Sam always moved. He was restless."

Frodo's gaze collapsed again; I'd learned recently to take that as a sign of guilt. I opened my mouth to tell him it was all right, but Rosie beat me to it. As her arm circled him and her lips tenderly pressed against his cheek, I remembered that a cousin couldn't help like an attractive, caring lover could. I backed away.

"You were wrong to send him away, and I told you so," Rosie said abruptly. Frodo chuckled, and she squeezed his shoulders. I sat back to watch, and lowered one of my growing curls for Cohco to play around with (keeping in mind that I would feel a few sharp jolts): I would undoubtedly catch a glimpse into what made their relationship work so well.

"But he is your closest childhood friend, Frodo. When I courted Sam, he would never stop talking about you, and he would speak even more enthusiastically of Miss Bix." She nodded to me. I smiled in return, until a yank came to the top of my head, and I winced; at least it kept Cohco happy. "He'll come back, I'm sure of it. And even if he doesn't of his own accord, I doubt any force of good is going to let him stay away, now that you know he's done nothing wrong."

Frodo's hand drifted to her waist, and he held her against his shoulder. She complied, as though I wasn't watching, and nearly slid up into his lap. I held my jaw to keep from laughing triumphantly; another yank snapped me out of it.

"Thank you, Rosie," he murmured, kissing the top of her head. My eyes widened when I realized her hair looked awfully different from when I'd seen her at Bilbo's party, had been changing since I'd come back: her golden curls had an undertone of black.

I didn't want to interrupt their moment, and so I waited.

But as long as the sentiment in the air was allowed to settle and simmer, it pushed my curiosity and their affectionate urge. Rosie reached up and pecked his cheek, and that soon turned to a full, long kiss. Out of respect alone I turned my gaze to Cohco; he laughed at me when I bounced one of my curls over his nose, and immediately Rosie broke off.

"Frodo," I said, looking up. Rosie's cheeks were slightly colored, but Frodo looked unfazed. I marched forward, asked Rosie if she would please hold Cohco, grabbed Frodo by the ear, and dragged him into my bedroom. Thankfully he didn't protest until I shut the door behind him.

"I apologize for being forward, but I truly thought you wouldn't be offended—," he started.

I put my hands on my hips, barely containing a laugh at his worried expression. "I am offended," I blurted. "I'm offended that she is not wearing an engagement ring, and she's been here for eighty whole minutes now."

"A hundred at least," Frodo said, suddenly sinking into a bashful stance.

"Well, where is it, then?" I asked. I tapped my foot.

Frodo relaxed, and he stepped over to me, lowering his hands over my shoulders. "Bix, I don't want to compromise helping you take care of Cohco; you've never done this before, and you're doing it completely companion-less if I go."

"Just because I didn't get my happy ending doesn't mean you can't have yours," I insisted. "Cohco and I will be fine; you've taught me a great deal, and weaning him will hopefully make things easier. Rosie is here now, and I declare that you will be doing me a greater service coming back from a glorious journey with her to Bag End."

Frodo paused. "She would help you better than I could," he admitted.

" _And_ you love her. Do you even have a ring?"

His hand slipped into his pocket, then back out with a ring at its center. He gestured for me to take it, and I peered at the little circlet. Fine, bright diamonds formed the general shape of a rose, with silver inlay to highlight detail.

"This was Father's," I whispered. I glanced back up at him.

"The metal is mithril, and the stone is diamond," Frodo said. I realized those were the exact words Father used to say. "I left all the rings in his treasure to you except this one, once I realized the magical ring would be destroyed." He swallowed.

"It's beautiful!" I admitted. It was difficult to let something of Father's go, but it was Frodo's; he'd inherited it, much as I disliked that Father trusted Frodo with all his possessions, and not me. "I'm sure she'll love it."

Frodo relaxed even more. "Then you approve."

"Of course I do!" I peered into his eyes, wondering why he would ask such a thing. But I didn't see anything I wanted to pursue. I ushered him outside and then waited.

Then I realized Cohco was still out there with them.

I nearly crept out of the room before I heard Rosie's cry. "Frodo!" Then feet pattered down the hall, and a blushing Rosie held up Cohco. "Miss Bix, I don't typically ask to give children away . . ."

"I'd be happy to take him, Rosie," I assured her, and I accepted Cohco from her. He looked wide-eyed and uncertain. Rosie scampered back down the hall, and I left the door open only a crack to hear her exclaim her yes, and then everything fell silent. I strained to hear an almost inaudible moan before I reminded myself not to listen in.

I sat down with Cohco on the bed, bouncing him while he sucked absently on my finger.

"Well, Cohco," I said, "looks like you'll be the new Mr. Baggins until Frodo gets back."


	17. My Own

In spite of what I told my son, it was a month or two at least before Frodo and Rosie were finally married and ready to go. We had her over every day, making plans. I often stepped out just to let them have a moment, whether that was making a turbulent compromise (which they did often, but Frodo kept his voice low for how stubborn his words were) or holding each other, kissing gently. Rosie was not one to let him slip far for expressions of affection, "not yet."

But the beautiful day did arrive, soon enough. Cohco was a year old two weeks before they were married . . . and he was already beginning to speak. Fluently. We hadn't had another incident with his eyes changing color by that point, but with Rosie's return, things couldn't have seemed brighter.

When I tried to go to the wedding, I was cast out—at first subtly, then with outcry—by the other attendees. Frodo insisted I still try to come, but I didn't know what to do. And it was about when I stepped back into Bag End that I realized Cohco was still home; his cries for me filled the air.

My eyes sank shut. I couldn't go back out there. Frodo was still trying to quiet everyone, but I couldn't ignore the thrown rocks, or the bruised spots they left, or the little trickle of blood running down from my thigh.

I quickly scooped up Cohco, trying to find something that would help. He calmed when I picked him up; a blessed miracle. I didn't want to stop and feed him, or anything else—Frodo and Rosie didn't have all day, or at least didn't want to spend all of it waiting on me. They might have left me at home if Rosie didn't ask me to be Matron of Honor.

I dug through Father's cabinet by the front door, finally locating my black, velvet hood that I'd received from Gondor. I slipped it over my head and stepped outside; I wondered if anyone would hold Cohco for me. But I didn't trust any of those people with him, so I just held him close and let him suck on a sugar stick.

After that, the wedding went decently smoothly, at least until the ceremony was over. I stuck to the shadows when I was not needed, and even when I was, it was to catch Rosie's bouquet. Frodo insisted that I join them, and he held Cohco while I stood back with them. I insisted that Rosie not look, for fear she would try to throw it at me on purpose and ignite false hope.

She didn't look. But somehow I caught it anyway.

That distressed me solidly, and I threw the bouquet to someone else, snatched Cohco back from Frodo, and raced back up to Bag End. Memories of Sam, of my daydreams and hopes to someday be his own, swarmed me before I could even make it back inside. I swatted them away as best I could, but they stayed, buzzing around and stinging me.

"Stop, please!" I cried.

"Mum?"  
My eyes widened, and I stared down at Cohco. I realized just how big he was, how old he looked. Then I remembered it had been a few weeks since he'd first learned how to speak.

"I no hurt you, Mum," Cohco said, his sweet little voice strained. He looked so distressed, and he tossed in my arms. "Mum . . . sad?"

I nodded, swiping the tears from my eyes. "Yes, Cohco." I remembered we were trying to teach him to walk; of all the things he could do, walking was not within his realm of ease, for some strange reason; Frodo insisted I get out of the habit of carrying him everywhere. I set him down on the couch, and he stared at the floor with wide eyes. He turned to me and shook his head.

"No! No!"

I bit my lip; it hurt to hear him so afraid.

"I can't keep carrying you, sweet one," I said. I knelt in front of him. "You'll have to learn to walk while Frodo and Rosie are away."

I didn't know if I was treating him correctly for his age, but then neither did Rosie, and she was an expert with children.

Cohco continued to protest his case. I watched as a two-wheeled carriage took Frodo and Rosie from my sight. This would be a long few weeks . . . if they returned in that time.

As the pattern had carried before, Cohco grew incredibly quickly, but even after Frodo and Rosie returned, he could not walk. Rosie tried to teach him, but he was just too scared. He wouldn't do it. Whenever we told him to be nice or to say something polite to a guest, he would do so, from about the age of two and a half years old, extraordinarily young for a hobbit to begin speaking intellectually, or understanding. He looked almost seven years at that time.

No matter what we tried, he refused to walk. I never thought to ask him.

When days of tension rolled around—either the outside was gloomy and that impacted our spirits or Frodo and Rosie got into a heated debate for one reason or another—I watched Cohco, curious to see if the Ring had all but left him. It appeared to be that way: he never showed signs of aggression again. In fact, he was a remarkably sweet, sincere boy. All that met him, assuming they didn't know his identity, said he was the ideal lad: he was very handsome, growing very tall from what they could see, and quiet unless asked to speak, after which he would give an intellectual or subtle opinion with amazing tact. He certainly hadn't gotten that from me.

But no one ever saw him standing up, not until he was almost nine, at which time he appeared to be nineteen or so. By this time Frodo and Rosie had children of their own, but I suppose that is their story to tell. They did not tease Cohco, for he was older than they and very kind to each. But one day Frodo and Rosie took their children out for a picnic, and I was left at home with just my son. We had heard from Gandalf that Sam was spotted all the way over in Gondor, learning to read and pouring over the royal archives. I didn't understand.

Gandalf told me he would not be brought home. Anytime they tried to convince him he would disappear again.

I was in the kitchen pondering what Gandalf had said; I begged him to go out and look. I assumed Sam still didn't understand what had happened to me, and I hoped he would come back. Gandalf said he would do his best, but Sam had an uncanny ability to vanish at this time. He traded for the fastest horses, searching the globe for . . . something.

As I sat at the table, staring down into my soup, I heard a mighty thump from the bedroom down the hall. I scrambled to my feet, racing to my room. I threw the door open, and Cohco sat in a heap on the floor; his legs were collapsed beneath him, and he breathed hard. He stared up at me, and his eyes widened.

"Mum, would you feel better if I could stand?" he said uneasily. He had such a guilelessness to him; I did not fear for his future anymore. Save that he could not walk.

"Oh, dearest," I whispered. I reached down and lifted him onto the bed. He was as tall as I, although I didn't want to admit it: I didn't feel like the mother of a middle-aged child, but Cohco was growing up quickly, and I was of the age to have grandchildren. I crinkled my nose; that didn't seem right. I didn't feel _old_.

But I realized all the children perhaps saw me that way, and decided I could accept that.

"Why do you think it would make me feel better?" I asked, rubbing his back.

"People always tell Frodo that you should be proud of me," Cohco whispered. "But I can't even walk, Mum; how can I do anything good if I can't walk?" Then he glanced up at me, squinting into my eyes. He pointed at my eyelids. "There are tears in there. Lots of them, waiting to come out. Why?"

I put my arm around my son and squeezed him. "Cohco, there is a story I have to tell you." And thus I explained to him about Sam, about the one hobbit I loved more than any that had run away because he was misunderstood.

"Why did he leave? Doesn't he love you?" Cohco persisted.

"I think he still does, but he doesn't know things are all right." I shook my head, straining not to cry, not in front of Cohco, who needed all the strength he could get. If he had one weakness, it was doubting himself and his ability . . . and that handicapped him more than he knew.

Cohco furrowed his brow; ever the diplomat and certain every external problem could be solved, he pressed forward. "Well, why was he sent away?"

I nearly blurted that Cohco was the reason Sam was gone; it was true, but I couldn't say it. I bit my lip.

"That is a story for another day." I stood up and looked around, trying to find the chair he had asked Frodo to make: it had wooden wheels on it so he could get around without being carried. "Where's your chair?"

"I broke it," Cohco said, his voice flooding with bitter conviction. He pointed to my closet, where shards of chair remained under my line of dresses and his line of jackets. "Mum, I am going to walk." His brow furrowed. "I _will_ walk."

I couldn't watch as he strained to his feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his face turn red and his eyes squeeze shut. A scream burst from his still-high voice, and I finally leaped forward. His legs trembled, and nearly gave way beneath him. I grabbed him, helping him up.

"Cohco, you can't do this by yourself; you need someone to hold you up."

"Mum, I have to." He shot me a deadly look, and I scrambled away as he threw most of his weight onto the bed behind him. "I'm going to do things that will hurt you to watch. That's what Frodo says. And Frodo also says that I'm going to have to do them alone, because that's what growing is all about."

I shook my head. "Growing isn't about doing it alone. Some things you have to learn for yourself, but I will always be here for you. You have to learn this over time."

Cohco paused, glancing at the floor. "I think you're right," he said slowly. He reached for my hand—sweet boy that he was—and I helped him up. He limped along at first, but after much practice, why, he could walk as well as any other.

Frodo was overjoyed to see it, and Cohco beamed when he realized Frodo was happy with him. They got along so well.

I only hoped Frodo was wrong . . . that I could help Cohco through everything. He was never leaving me; he was my baby, and would always be mine, my young one.


	18. Snowbelle

By the time he was fourteen, he looked and acted like he had just come of age. Thus I was only in my late sixties, but I felt like a true grandmother . . . although Cohco had never courted. All of his peers found him awkward and frightening, in spite of his gentility; Frodo's children were all still young, although they cared for him, and I doubted he would ever love them more than he did now.

I hardly went out into the Shire, and thus neither did he: he was an obedient boy, and when I explained that people believed I was a horrible creature and why, he understood my plight and never even asked. Frodo took me out in the evenings, and sometimes Rosie came along. I got a fresh breath of the night air, but I missed being a truthful part of my surroundings. I missed Sam. I missed being healthy and accepted.

But I had Cohco. And for now that was enough.

Once Frodo became Mayor Elect of West Farthing, I told him it was probably time for Cohco and me to move out; he had six children, and not enough time to worry about my troubles. He and Rosie did what they could to comfort me, since Sam still hadn't come back. He'd been gone so long; Gandalf assured me he was probably never coming back. I should have realized it long before.

Cohco and I packed up and moved far out, to a little abandoned burrow next to the Brandywine. It wasn't in horrible shape, but we had a difficult time, to say the least: Cohco still couldn't walk without giving a sign of excruciating pain. I asked Frodo about it, and he said he didn't know what was happening. Perhaps, he said, because Cohco never learned in the first place, he would be impaired for the rest of his life.

I feared for him. I had to patch up the hole myself, since he couldn't move much. He tried to do his best, and faltered inside when he couldn't; he was such a sensitive creature, and I had to be careful about what I said around him. He took everything rather personally, but he didn't ever lash out at me.

But in watching him, I rather felt being relatively alone was no good for him. I almost thought about moving back to Bag End . . . until an unexpected knock came to our door.

Cohco glanced out the window from his rather consistent placing on the couch. His eyes widened, and his voice dropped to a hiss. "Mum, it's a lass!" Then he leaped onto the floor, dragging himself by his hands as he had taught himself to do. But he didn't get to the kitchen before the second knock came, so he lifted himself into a chair and sat facing away.

Amused, I realized she was probably very attractive.

Attractive she was . . . or so I guessed upon seeing her. I never knew what lads saw in females. She had rich, brown curls—basically what my hair wanted to be. Her cheeks were almost indiscernibly accented with pink, and she had big, brown eyes, as well as a very sweet air to her. She wasn't slender, but rather substantial in the way of the traditional hobbit lass and hidden well by her hefty cloak. Her delicate hands framed the handle of a wicker basket that clung to her spring green dress.

"Madame Baggins?" she asked. Her articulation was flawless, and I didn't know whether to invite her in and hope she taught us something about getting along here or send her away and get back to life as we knew it, simple and relatively uneducated.

I swallowed. "I am Miss Baggins; and who are you, my dear?" Then I shook my head. "It's windy out; come inside."

She smiled. "Thank you." She daintily stepped inside, her perfect curls shimmering with her movement. "I am Snowbelle Hornblower. I heard you had just moved here, and that you were working on this place alone. Mr. Baggins has been teaching me to read for the past few weeks, and he told me you lived right next to us."

"Thank you, Miss Hornblower," I said. I burned to ask about Frodo . . . if she had seen Sam at all . . . but I had immediate concerns to worry about. "But I'm afraid you are, to a point, mistaken: I am not alone. My son moved with me."

Miss Hornblower blinked. "He didn't mention anything about a husband, Miss Baggins." Then she paused. "I'm sorry for your loss."

For a moment I thought she meant Sam, and I wondered how she knew. Then I realized she couldn't know about the Ring, or perhaps guess that I would betray my own fidelity. I smiled down at her and nodded. "Thank you, my girl."

Her young eyes grew curious, kind of how I felt I would look when I was younger and something intrigued me. "What would your name be, ma'am? If he were still here?"

"Gamgee," I said without a moment's pause. Then I shook my head. "I'm afraid there's nothing any of us can do now. Come inside; you must be cold."

"I'm not cold, but I would like to see your home." She followed me inside; I almost introduced her to Cohco, but he had disappeared. I called out for him once before I decided it was useless, that he wouldn't come out until she was gone. The poor thing—if he weren't so shy, he could jump on this opportunity, but at twenty I wouldn't have wanted anything to do with an attractive hobbit, so I left him alone.

Miss Hornblower took notes as I showed her what I was working on: the broken cupboards, the aged windows, the dirt from the top of the burrow that was loosening and allowing rain to leak through the roof, the floorboards with gaps between them, the significant lack of furniture and food, the creaky nature of the beds. The list went on and on beyond that, and I suddenly realized what a poor state I had forced Cohco into. My shoulders slumped with every new thing I showed her. I realized we hadn't really been living there very long, but I still had so much to do. He might be grown and out of here before I fixed up this place.

Miss Hornblower nodded sturdily when I told her I was done showing her the burrow. "Right. Thank you, Miss Baggins." Then she glanced down at her basket and started shuffling through. "Here. Frodo sent this, and I collected some of my own as well." She handed me a huge purse of coins. "And he sent this, but the home needs more development before it can be effectively employed." She set three paint buckets on the floor beside my fireplace. "And Mrs. Baggins sent these as well." Three loaves of bread, a sack of what I assumed was meat of some kind for the squelching thud it made when it hit the floor, and a bundle of vegetables followed.

By this point my heart ached: at least Cohco and I had people who loved us. "Oh, bless you, Miss Hornblower!" I cried. In spite of myself I squeezed her close to me. She most certainly acted taken aback, and proceeded to pat my shoulder with uncertainty. But when I pulled away she had a sweet smile, and it was sincere.

"You're welcome any time, Miss Baggins," she said.

"Please, call me Bix."

Her head cocked. "Bix?"

"My name is Bixbite," I said. "Any friend of mine is welcome to call me Bix."

She smiled wider. She seemed so happy, innately and constantly. "Bix. Well, thank you, Bix." Then her nose crinkled briefly. "It doesn't sound proper to call you by your first name, but if I'm your friend as you say, then I'll get used to it, I promise."

I smiled back, then glanced outside; it was getting dark. "Are your parents going to expect you home?"  
"I don't have parents," Miss Hornblower said.

My gaze flickered to the ground. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "You don't have to be; Mr. Baggins has already helped me to get through it. He lost his parents when he was little as well, and he knows my new caretaker."

"Really? Would I know him? Or her, I suppose?"

She shrugged then. "Most people seem to. Sackville-Baggins, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Her nephew was killed in the war, and so were my parents. She took me on because I have a big burrow, but at least I have someone to live with. And she doesn't beat me like my father used to."

I had to restrain a gawk. I wondered why I hadn't seen her with Frodo before, and I wondered if she had just lived with Lobelia—probably friendless for her new family name—this entire time. She looked to be about twenty or so, not very old.

"Sweetheart . . . how old are you?" I asked.

"Thirty-five," she replied. Her eyes stiffened then and her smile slouched, but only for a moment.

I offered to let her stay for dinner, although I didn't have much food: we just had bread that night to eat, from her basket that she placed in the middle of the table. But I had money, and she had given me so much when her life was undoubtedly the least envied in the whole of the Shire. I didn't ask her too many questions, but she told me a lot: she evidently had never really had friends, although she didn't mention that directly so much as said that she'd never needed or wanted one growing up. Her mother apparently was the infamous—but only discussed by gossips—Barren Blower. I'd never really discovered what that actually meant until Miss Hornblower explained that her mother tried to have children, and would have had six before and three after her only surviving daughter if Mr. Hornblower hadn't killed them all in drunken rages.

Both Hornblowers were apparently killed by a fire raid, just outside the home. The girl before me showed me violent red scars all over her body, both from her flaming burrow and the violence of her father. Lobelia had stumbled across the burrow and sent Miss Hornblower up to Frodo to be taken care of, but the moment the war ended she had to leave in all the chaos of reorganizing the Shire. Frodo apparently hadn't known she had no family, so Lobelia was forced to take care of Miss Hornblower.

"She should have kicked me out two years ago, but she let me stay." Her eyes narrowed uncertainly. "I don't actually know why. Frodo says it's because she wants his money, and he does send her money to take care of me."

"Do you not want to leave? You could legally leave," I tried. "Go and work for Frodo if you wish." I paused and glanced up at my roof. "I couldn't pay you in more than food and board, but you could work here."

Miss Hornblower shook her head. "Lobelia is getting on in years, and she's alone; I can't leave her, not until she is ready to pass away. She has been good to me, apparently better to me than to any other. I'm fairly sure she does not like me, but I cannot discredit her for her sour works. She has not had the most pleasant life either, Bix."

I tried to convince her still, trying to be merely persuasive. I asked her if the memories of her old hole hurt, and she said yes. I told her she would have friends here, and I would take her on as one of my own. She could leave her broken surname behind her and become a Baggins, as she had told me was her deepest wish: she'd wanted to become one of Frodo's, once she learned he had children.

"I may be a Baggins yet, Bix," she assured me. "He has two sons."

"Neither of which are remotely your age. His eldest four children are lasses, and his sons are both under eight years old."

Miss Hornblower shrugged. "Then I will discover myself as time wears on. But I do wish to help you. Aside from Elvish lessons from Frodo and making meals for Lobelia, I have more time than I can use in a day."

"Well, what do you enjoy doing?" I asked.

"I love . . ." She sighed, glancing around. "I love growing things. I love making what is broken renewed. I love the study of burrows, and architecture—," She paused and lowered her voice. "Architecture from far-away lands." She sounded almost apologetic after that. "I've always wanted to see the carved White City. And the Black Gate; they say some of it still stands. I wish I could study Barad-Dur, and the homes of Rohan, the qualities of the wood in Lorien . . ." She trailed off and shook her head. "The world could be so much more efficient, and I feel a need to change it. But I am happy with what I have."

She didn't look like she meant it, although she also seemed like she was trying to mean it with every fiber of her being.

I paused. I didn't want to bring this up. I didn't want her to have brought it up. But I would never forget what she had brought to me, how she had saved me from my broken home and offered to do more.

"I've been to those places, Miss Hornblower," I said. The words creaked out of my mouth, and I hoped she couldn't hear my hesitance. "And I could tell you everything about them that I remember. Are you good at drawing?"

Her eyes lit up for a moment, and she snorted when I brought up drawing. I nearly laughed outright at the contortion of that perfectly innocent, sweet face; I didn't think she could have disdain for anything in the world.

"Apparently I am excellent at drawing, but they try to make me draw fruit. I want to use it to design things, Bix, make plans for the unimaginable, for the beauty of grand palaces and sturdy buildings of my hand. I want to see the grandeur of the places I can only see in my mind come to life before my eyes more than almost anything." She hesitated. "Not quite as much as becoming a Baggins."

We both laughed at that. I agreed to teach her what I remembered about the world I had explored if she was willing to come and help me with my home. She promised four hours every day, divided or in a single block, to come and assist. I promised all the time she had spare around that; she asserted two hours on my behalf.

"Thank you so much for your help, Miss Hornblower," I said as I followed her to the door. She seemed like such a wonderful, sweet girl; I wished Cohco could marry someone like that. But he didn't seem capable enough, in my mind. He couldn't walk, and for an efficient worker and assertive girl like Miss Hornblower, he would probably move too slowly.

"Call me Snowbelle," she said. Then that smile returned, and she looked like an angel under my porchlight. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Bix!"

I waved to her as she walked away, and the moment I shut the door Cohco came rolling out in his new wheeled chair.

"Who was that, Mum?" he asked cautiously. He peered out the window, and his expression faltered.

"Come have some bread, Cohco," I said, keeping the chuckle out of my voice. "That was Snowbelle Hornblower. She brought us food, and offered to come over—for four hours a day—to help us fix up the burrow."

He had just about bitten into a hunk of bread when he coughed.

I still had to contain a laugh; it was comforting to see him attracted to a girl. I was afraid he would have nowhere to go and no one to take care of him once Frodo and I were gone, but things could change in his favor, I realized, whether I lived to see it or not.

Another knock sounded at the door, and I raced to grab it. Cohco didn't react, just kept eating his bread with a thoughtful look.

Snowbelle laughed nervously when I opened the door.

"Snowbelle! It's good to see you so soon." I resisted looking back at Cohco; no movement occurred behind me. But the moment I let her in, he tripped over himself trying to drag his body into the bedroom. "This is my son Cohco."

"Pleased to meet you," Snowbelle said, but then she looked up. He scrambled back into his chair, flushed. She shot a glance at me, then turned back to Cohco. She stepped right up to him, and he nearly fell out of his chair again.

"You don't look like a Gamgee," she said. Then she shrugged. "My apologies for intruding again, Bix: I left my basket here." She picked it up off the table and stared down at Cohco again. Then her smile came back. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Baggins." She extended her hand for him to shake, but he didn't manage to process before she decided he wasn't going to accept her invitation. She embraced me on her way out the door.

Cohco stared up at me, his eyes wide and his face bright red.

"Mum, I can't." He shook his head. "What's happening to me?"

I chuckled. "What do you mean, what's happening to you? I told you you would like girls."

"Sure, but I didn't expect this! Mum, she's beautiful." He shook his head. "And she's perfect."

At that I concealed my amusement again; of course he thought she was perfect. But in my limited experience in the matter, he would have to realize that loving someone applies to accepting their imperfections as well. I only wished I could have shown him what that was like . . . express my love to Sam and give it to him as an example of his own life.


	19. Spasm

Cohco didn't take to Snowbelle for a while, and she didn't speak to him much either. But soon he grew truly curious about her, and started watching her as she worked. I confess, she was highly skilled, and she was passionate simply about the structure, much less decoration and the usefulness of everything inside. And I told her how to sketch the palace of Minas Tirith, along with hundreds of other things that she wanted to have seen. She asked me about the Elvish buildings in Mirkwood, and I told her that I didn't go. Cohco sat and watched as we talked, and as I stumbled over details that I couldn't quite remember. She was rather put out when she realized I really didn't remember very much, but she left it as it was and helped me beyond measurement.

Eventually Snowbelle started talking to Cohco. I taught him how to communicate back to her, and soon they were caught talking. She learned things about Cohco that he'd never confided in me: he evidently had a heavy interest in gardening, making food and coaxing growth into seedlings. He reminded me of Sam; he wasn't the most intelligent creature, but he loved watching things grow. He loved peace.

He was no Baggins, I realized, not at heart: he just wanted to be like everyone else.

The day he began talking to Snowbelle was the day it all started: he began becoming more open and optimistic, but he also acted up. His eyes would grow golden, and a small smile, wise and wicked beyond any hobbit in the Shire, would lift the corners of his mouth in a cold curve. He did it almost every day, when she walked him out. He started talking to me about the amazing things he'd learned about her and go on and on about how much he loved being around her . . . and then he would devolve into a reflection of the Ring.

Then there were mornings, days I would wake up Cohco and realize his furniture was wrecked. Scratch marks—faint though they were—covered the walls when I looked more closely later on, when Cohco was outside making pastries and didn't usher me out.

I was almost too afraid to ask him about it; I assumed it was the Ring that did it. But I also would sometimes find his window open, or flowers and biscuits on his bed with a note from Snowbelle. There was no connection, or so I devised . . . and hoped. If she angered him in any way, I wanted to know.

My curiosity burned longer than I wanted to let it. But Cohco never looked upset anymore. Snowbelle soon began greeting him with a kiss on the cheek whenever she arrived to work, and she would show him how to fix cupboards and things. Soon I had her over just for the sheer enjoyment of it, and she became closer to us than I ever could have imagined. But soon I began leaving her and Cohco alone . . . when he would kiss her hand, and she would sidle close to him. I didn't know whether to stop them or not, but she was almost thirty-six and he looked over of-age, so I stepped out and let them talk.

Snowbelle came over one morning, on Cohco's fifteenth birthday, which was the day before the day I typically commemorated Sam's passing. She apparently knew it was his birthday, but she defied tradition and instead of accepting a gift from him, she gave one to him: it was a pack of rose seedlings. She told him she had tilled the garden, and it was ready for flowers to fill it. She said the roses were just the beginning.

"Snowbelle!" he cried. He was such a passionate creature; sometimes he exuded so much emotional energy that I wondered if I was insensitive, until I realized that he outmatched Snowbelle for sentiment. He reached up and grabbed her shoulders, nearly leaping out of his chair as he quickly tapped his lips to hers. She laughed as he blushed and sat back; I applauded, unsure what else to do. I felt strange watching them, certainly, as though my insides were all twisted up, but I didn't stop them.

"And for my next gift," Snowbelle announced, "I have brought a horse and wagon to take you all to visit Frodo. He's been waiting to see you both, and now that the burrow is fixed up I was hoping you would join me."

Cohco smiled broadly, and his eyes shimmered. "Absolutely," he said. Then he turned to me, and I nodded.

"We would be delighted to join you, Snowbelle," I said.

She stepped forward and took Cohco's hand; he rolled his chair towards the front door, and as I'd taught him to do, he opened the door for her and waited for her to step out. I closed the door behind him, and I lifted him into the wagon. Snowbelle told me she would pack up his chair, but the moment she clicked the reins of the horses I realized the chair was still on the ground, and Cohco was the only weight in the back of the wagon.

I decided not to ask; she hopefully had a good reason for leaving it behind. I would ask her when we got there why she left it behind. Right now I excused myself from asking to let her concentrate.

My heart beat quickly when I saw Bag End again, where I had been raised . . . been proposed to . . . experienced the greatest pain in my life, losing Sam and realizing I'd taken him for granted all those years. Cohco didn't seem affected until we all walked inside to meet Frodo.

"Aunt Bix!" six little voices chorused, and I was suddenly attacked, but not by any of those younger hobbits. They all went right for Cohco, attacking his legs, and Rosie embraced me solidly.

"Bix! You're back! And Cohco looks wonderful!" She still didn't let go until Snowbelle embraced her, and then she finally turned away from me.

I laughed and shuffled my hair back into place; it had grown long, since I hadn't cut it after Sam disappeared. That cleared my vision . . . and I saw Frodo. He leaned casually on the round doorframe, then straightened when he saw me. He squeezed me briefly, and I ruffled his curls; I was so happy to see him.

"I'm so happy you're all right," Frodo said. "I feel as though you're still out there on the road, with—well, with everything still ahead of you."

I assumed he had been about to bring up that I was still with Sam, as though none of this nightmare had happened. Perhaps Cohco would have still been born if he'd had a father, if Sam had been there instead of dark magic.

Even if that wasn't Frodo's idea, it was certainly mine. And as Frodo greeted my son by clasping his arm, I wandered inside: the halls were brighter, and everything inside cared for nicely. I wondered how Rosie managed to keep everything tidy. Keeping young Cohco was hard enough; I couldn't imagine doing it with six at once. But if I had Sam to help me, perhaps things would be different.

Eventually Frodo's family found their way back inside, dragging Cohco by whatever of him they could reach, mostly his vest and sleeves, and Snowbelle followed. Her gaze travelled over Cohco, illuminating with interest when he knelt down and talked to the younger ones, held them and wrestled with them.

Something seemed off about it to me, like I'd never seen him so energetic. I assumed it was just the combination of company, with Snowbelle and Frodo, everyone in the world he loved.

I felt initially that I should be more satisfied, as those around me were: I had everything in the world . . . save my counterpart, my missing half, the kindness and gentility of Sam that I myself did not possess the gift for. I found my gaze—and slowly my entire body—drifting to the window, as though I could see him clipping roses outside.

Sam. Sam. Sam . . . _Sam, come back and help me. I can't do this on my own. I was never adequate without you._

 _I need you to remind me why I am loved, and I need you to let me give my all for you._

Then I heard a scream behind me. I turned around, only to see Cohco viciously attacking Rosie. Frodo grabbed him by the waist, yanking him off of her, and Cohco snapped at Frodo. He caught Frodo's leg with his fingernails, dragging a series of gashes through the fabric, and as was soon evident by the blood dripping to the floor, Frodo's skin.

"Cohco!" I raced for them, but Snowbelle held me off; her expression crumpled from aghast disbelief while Frodo strained to lock Cohco's arms behind him. Cohco stared up at me. His lips curled in an angry snarl, and his teeth were stained with deluded red: I realized Frodo had a deep bite mark on his neck, also bleeding.

Cohco's golden eyes sank, and his face relaxed, but only briefly before horror crossed his features. Frodo shot him a protective glare, but once he saw my son's face he lessened his hold.

Cohco shook his head, over and over. Tears quickly welled in his eyes.

"Mother, I'm so sorry!" he cried. He leaped up, throwing Frodo off, and bolted out the door. Snowbelle lifted her skirts for mobility and raced after him.

"Frodo, what happened?!" I spun around as Frodo lifted Rosie to her feet. She blinked away tears of shock, and Frodo squeezed her close while his glare escaped out the front door.

"I can imagine he was tense to begin with, coming here, but Rosie did mention something about Cohco having no father. Not in any rude way, of course, just how I've always brought it up with him." Frodo paused his explanation to rub Rosie's shoulders; he pecked the top of her head and brought her closer in to him. "I'm afraid, Bix, that I do not trust him. He tried to attack my wife, and until you have figured out why or if there is any way to stop him from doing it, that he must stay away from my family."

I bit my tongue; I wanted to protest. I wanted to insist that Cohco was happy here, that whatever reactions he had were not spurred by anger, just energy. But I knew it would only endanger Frodo's family more; the floor was stained irreparably with blood now.

So I nodded. "Of course, Frodo. I won't bring him here again."

Rosie shook her head. "This is what happened with Sam! You two can't let this pattern repeat itself; we'll lose everything." Then her gaze fell to the floor, and she gasped. Her fingers tracked along Frodo's shoulder to his neck, and she brushed away the blood there. She didn't say another word, save a mutter that I assumed was a good-bye, and dragged Frodo into the other room. His eyes flickered; I could imagine his strength in the face of losing so much blood would only make him weak.

I tore my gaze from the trail of red prints that followed them away; the children were all in bed, thank goodness. I stood alone, in the living room that should have been mine. If plans had gone like I'd wished them to, this home would be mine, and Frodo would be living in some Buckland mansion. Sam would be my lifelong companion; Cohco would be mine to love and to keep, not to isolate from the world and the people he'd grown to love.

As had occurred with the window, I didn't remember walking out the door, but I seemingly awakened from my internal nightmare back at home, down by the Brandywine: I heard the river rushing outside, and there were a few candles lit. The fire blazed to my right, newly freshened with logs from outside.

Then I remembered . . . a little. I remembered stumbling aimlessly back home. I thought I remembered turning the knob to the door, nearly burning myself on the candles, but I didn't care. I supposed that would never change. Perhaps I would just stop caring about everything.

And about that moment, it hit me: Cohco was outside, missing, with Snowbelle behind him.

He was all I had left.

"Cohco!" I leaped up from my chair, grabbed my cloak, and raced out the door. But before I got far, I realized it had started to rain; I wouldn't be able to find him.

I had to find him, now. If he was out there with Snowbelle they might both die before she could carry him anywhere. I charged through the muddy ground, and the rain above me shoved into a full-on storm. Wind ripped through the trees, and lightning crashed through the sky, illuminating the world for a blinding moment.

"Cohco!" The thunder and wind yelled back at me, as though sending back a letter that had no known receiver or home. I went back to Frodo's; perhaps Cohco had gone there looking for me. But they would not answer my pleas, so I assumed Cohco was not there either. I broke back out into the storm after resting against the wall for a brief, slightly less turbulent moment. I shouted Cohco's name, then Snowbelle's, then repeated and drove through the mud and trees. Soon leaves and bits of branches began snapping against my face, leaving little scratches and stings of pain.

"Cohco . . ." I moaned. I shook my head; I couldn't find him. And while the storm continued to rage on, the world around me began to brighten up: dawn had come. The wind whipped my hair to the side, and I struggled to see my way over the cobblestones that I knew led to home.

But I had the wrong home in mind—they came right back to Bag End.

I pounded on the door, begging to come inside. I was tired, I was wet, I was fatigued, hungry, and afraid: I needed someone, or something, just another boost to get me by until I could find my son.

Persistently I banged on the door for probably five minutes before it creaked open. Frodo's eyes widened when he saw me, although they were bloodshot. He surveyed my condition, then the outdoors. He grabbed my cloak shoulder and dragged me inside, then shut the door behind me.

"Rosie isn't awake yet," Frodo said, almost apologetically, as he sat me down at the table. He grabbed a kettle of water—probably from the night before—and set it over the fire. He grabbed my cloak from off of me and replaced it with his own. He then proceeded to coil my hair up on the top of my head, placing a blanket over my neck before he lowered it back down. I assumed he had learned that from war as well, but I didn't ask.

"Did you two stay up late?" My voice came out creaky and wheezy, which I hadn't expected. Frodo raced for the fire, bringing me a mug of tea.

"Yes," he said, talking quickly, probably to keep me from saying anything. "Rosie still doesn't think Cohco should be kept away, says it isn't his fault. And I suppose it wouldn't be a huge issue if he hadn't learned to walk. When did that happen, anyway?"

I spit out my tea, and steam escalated from my mouth. I set the cup down, suddenly overwhelmed by its warmth. "What?" I rasped.

"You were here," Frodo prompted. "He was walking all last night, wasn't he?"

No wonder watching him wrestle had been so strange, as though I felt he was taller than I'd ever seen him. He was _walking_. He was moving around; I had seen it myself, and the thought completely passed me by, as though I viewed him as normal, which he absolutely was not.

"He was. I don't know what happened," I whispered. I thought back: I had never seen him walk before. It explained the claw marks high up on his walls, and how the house seemed to be improving at a faster rate while Cohco and Snowbelle worked without me. I didn't know why he wanted to keep it a secret; I was suddenly proud of him.

"So yesterday was his first time?" Frodo said. One of his eyebrows shot up.

I shook my head. "It couldn't have been. I don't understand." I sipped more of my tea; it stung with warmth on its way down my throat. It was herbal, and although it tasted awful it helped my throat. "You're right; he is more dangerous, able to walk. But I haven't seen him all night: he didn't come home, and I've been out looking for him ever since I got home."

"He's missing?!" Frodo glanced back into the hallway, then lowered his voice. "I'll help you look for him, Bix. He shouldn't be out alone, for his own sake or anyone else's." He leaped to his feet, and then I noticed the little strip of fabric slung around his neck. A blossom of red spread through it at his violent movement.

I stood, nearly knocking my tea over. "Frodo, sit down. You're wounded." I glanced down at his leg, also dripping with new blood. "Cohco can't have gone far, wouldn't have gone far. You stay here; if you recover enough that blood doesn't start welling at your every step, I'll let you come along and look for him. But I'll probably find him before you can even blink."

Frodo's eyebrow shot up. "In this storm?"

I paused and glanced outside. I didn't believe myself, but I could lie to keep Frodo out of trouble. "Yes." I almost felt like I sounded optimistic. "Of course. It'll be a cinch, what with the light back and all. The storm will undoubtedly drive him home."

Frodo sighed. "I don't like letting you out there alone."

"But you have no choice. And I'm sure, as a captain of sorts, that you had to make hard decisions all the time . . . risk the people you know and love. Please, Frodo, let me go."

His sigh turned into a hard stare. "You must be careful." I realized I had awakened memories in him that perhaps I shouldn't have, and he walked quickly to me. Before I could leap for the door, he grabbed my shoulders, not hard but certainly firm. I was afraid some nightmare of war would make him fly into a rage, but he just kept talking. His voice sped up, and escalated. "You don't understand what's out there. I sent Rosie out, and she didn't come back."

His eyes glazed over, and I pushed against him. "Frodo, snap out of it! I'm fine."

"She ran into Saruman," he whispered. "She wouldn't have come back." His grip solidified.

"You have to let go; I'm going to look for Cohco. Rosie is fine. She's here, and you're married to her. You have six children, remember?" Finally Frodo's fingers relaxed, and I wrested away from him. "Now I'm out to find my son, and you're staying here."

"Bix."

I turned, and he gave me a distant look.

"He cursed her. You noticed her black hair, didn't you? That was from Saruman. He found out who she was . . . and her body began to decay. He cursed her. She almost died the first time she gave birth, Bix, and every time after that has still been hard. _Be careful_. If Cohco puts any sort of spell on you—,"

"He's not going to hurt me," I said stubbornly. "And even if he does, I still love him."

Without giving him more room to speak, I threw myself back out into the cold and wind. I realized then that I still had his cloak, and I slipped back inside to throw it on the floor. I could get my own cloak back later.

I yelled Cohco's name repeatedly, and occasionally I cried out for Snowbelle. The wind and rain eventually died down, leaving droplets of rain and a muddy earth for me to trudge through. I got myself lost soon enough; it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes before my stomach protested at me. I almost doubled over, remembering that awful pain from so long ago that seemed so fresh and new. That cursed Ring, I spat to myself as I strained to keep my torso from splatting against the mud.

I failed soon enough, slamming my side into the ground. I struggled to stand again and pushed forward with strength I didn't have. Finally, the roar of rushing water filled my ears: I'd made it to the Brandywine. I forced myself to crawl to the bank and stumble the extent of the river; home should be nearby, unless I'd wandered so far south that it would take me an hour.

But soon enough, I could see the back of the hill of my burrow. Black smoke hissed from the front, and I halted in my tracks.

"Cohco!" I didn't know what had happened, but I prayed Cohco hadn't come home yet. I didn't want him dead, even after all he'd done and all that surrounded him. I raced to the front door; thank goodness, the hill hadn't been burned down, and neither had most of the home, but inside all I saw was black. Then I heard a cough as well as a repetitive scraping.

My heart jumped, and I cried out again. "Cohco!" I ducked inside, then flattened to the floor to avoid the smoke. Through the haze I could see open windows, as well as burn marks on the wood of the floor just in front of me.

Then his fingernails, scraping against the floor, filled my vision. I snapped my head up, and my nose nearly smacked right into Cohco's.

"Mum, _why_ did you leave the candles going while you were out?"

I cried out and grabbed his shoulders, crushing him close to me as best I could. "You're all right!" I kissed his forehead. "Sweet one, you didn't come back, and I didn't know what had happened!" Then I stopped. "The candles? What about them?"

"I came back through my window," Cohco said stubbornly. "I didn't want to wake you. But there were candles . . . on the table, with no holders, just set there; there were a whole bunch of starters right around them. I caught a glimpse of them before they burned, but before I could do anything the whole table was on fire." He pointed behind himself.

I coughed; the smoke was receding quickly, but I still didn't feel comfortable breathing in here. I covered my mouth with my sleeve, and Cohco dove out the door. He grabbed my shoulders and dragged me along with him; I realized just how much practice he had getting around without the ability to walk.

Questions flooded me, and I grabbed his shoulders. "Where were you last night? What happened, with Frodo and Rosie? How long have you known how to walk?!"

Cohco shook his head. "One at a time, Mum."

"All right. Where were you last night? And what happened with Rosie?" I paused. "And how on earth . . .?"

"I was with Snowbelle," he interjected before I could say more. "We have a little cave that her grandparents dug into the side of a hill to hide when they were in love." His words tumbled from his mouth. "I've loved her since the moment I laid eyes on her, Mum. She's everything and more; we started talking when you would go out for food sometimes, and soon she started coming at night, talking to me through my window. She never came in, but I never came out, and she asked why. I told her I couldn't walk, didn't want to, and she asked why."

I waited. "Why?"

Cohco gave me a skeptical look, but it quickly fell away. "That's right; I never told you." He nodded to his legs. "They hurt, whenever I try to use them. When you were trying to teach me, it felt like big balls would fall to the bottoms of my feet, and fire all the way up my legs to my stomach. I don't like walking, Mum, but she told me—well, that was the night she told me she loved me, and that if I wanted to be her husband someday I had to learn to walk." He swallowed. "So she carried me outside, and she started teaching me. I love her more than I ever have, Mum, and I want to be a good husband for her . . . but I can't.

"What happened with Frodo and Rosie has been happening for a long time. I don't let you into my room because there are scratch marks everywhere; sometimes I have nightmares, and when I wake up, I'm covered in blood and there are gashes all around me. I've woken up with kitchen knives in my stomach and my heart."

I nearly regurgitated then; I couldn't imagine my little Cohco impaled by a weapon. Then I stopped.

"Why?"

"Because apparently I hate myself," Cohco said, anger stirring into his voice. "I think I always have. Frodo says I tried to throw myself off of your bed when I was little, and I've awakened to drowning myself, trying to jump from trees."

"Why haven't you ever told me? I want to help; I love you," I pleaded.

His eyes narrowed. "I knew you would say that. I love you too, but tonight was the last of it." Then tears filled his angry gaze. "Mum, I attacked Snowbelle! I almost killed her! She started talking about how she couldn't take my violent behavior, especially against myself." His eyes stirred with gold, and he shook it away. "It hurt, but not that badly. But I attacked her. She had a knife in there: Lobelia doesn't feed her, so she has to feed herself, fend for herself except for a place to live. We had apples when she took me away from Frodo's to calm me down, and I tried to kill her with it. When I realized what was happening, she already had gashes . . . all over her stomach, and her arms." He shook his head, and his voice cracked with energy. "She ran away, but she didn't realize I had stopped. I had a stab in myself . . . right here." He pointed to his heart. "But it bubbled gold, and the blood went away. I realized that I have a destiny now."

My head cocked. "Cohco?"

"Snowbelle has left me. I'm sure Frodo is angry; I hurt him, and I didn't mean it. I can't stop making your life hard. I know what happened with Sam, what happened with the Ring; Rosie told me, and so did Frodo. I wish I weren't the worst thing in your life, but that is that, and there's nothing I can do to change it. I want to die, but I obviously can't by any mortal means." Then he paused. "So I came back to say goodbye."

My eyes bulged. "Cohco! I love you! Please, don't go away! I want to help. And you aren't the worst thing that's ever happened to me; you're my son, the creature I love the most. You remind me of Sam, and I don't want you to leave, not now. I'm sure Snowbelle will forgive you."

He chuckled harshly. "You're trying to sacrifice everything else for me. But I'm grown up now; Frodo told me I grew up fast, and I think he's right. I'm going to go make my own way and let you live the life you want—without me." Then he let out a sharp whistle.

"Cohco, please!"

"I made Snowbelle promise she would take care of you," Cohco said. "And Frodo is here for you. I can't help; I can barely walk, and even when I can walk, it's painful. The burrow is better off without me, and so are you."

"Where will you go? What will you do? You're my son; I'll be able to find you, and I will always be looking."

A pony trotted up to Cohco, its ears flickering. It had a makeshift bridle and nothing more. He knelt up, slung his arms over its back, and launched himself over the pony. It tossed its head as he righted himself.

"I'm going to die, if it isn't that obvious," he said. His expression fell. "I'll miss you, Mum, and I'll think about you every day." He turned his horse away and clicked it into movement.

I leaped to my feet and raced after him. Before he could increase the pace of his mount, I grabbed the reins and shoved it to a halt. "But you can't die; you said so yourself. You're not going anywhere, and you are most certainly not dying."

He shook his head, leaning down. "I'm going back to Mount Doom." He tore the reins from my gasp and belted a command to the horse. It snorted and leaped away from me, galloping down the dirt path to the main road of the Shire.


	20. The Strength of Mordor

I raced to the Gamgees', pounding on their door. Gaffer opened it, and when he saw me he gasped.

"Do you have a horse, Gaffer? Please, I need a horse," I insisted.

He nodded. "Have a horse if you wish, Miss Bix," he said, and then he reached for my hand. "Miss Bix, I need you—,"

"Gaffer, I'm truly sorry, but I can't," I said, taking my hand from his. I trotted down the walk; the poor man probably needed some help, but I hadn't the time to offer it now. "My son is trying to kill himself, but my brother lives just down the road; ask him if you need anything! Thank you!"

Gaffer called my name again, but I rationalized that I just couldn't. I would drag Cohco back home, go take care of Gaffer, and forget all of this suicidal nonsense. Then perhaps I could focus on getting Snowbelle back, hopefully ask Gandalf how to help my son.

I saddled the horse quickly and tore off down the road to Frodo's; I explained in short breath that my home had been burned, that I had no food, and that Cohco was headed for Mount Doom. He didn't ask questions, just disappeared inside for a moment and came back with two heavy sacks. He told me to wait right there, then raced down the road. He came back with a horse as well.

"Oh, no, you are not coming with me," I muttered. "Frodo, you have a family and a whole Farthing to take care of; my son is my trouble."

"And mine," Frodo insisted. "If it weren't for my meddling and pride, you would have a Sam to help you care for him, and thus a figure that could tie Cohco down when you needed it. And while you may know the road to Mordor better than I do, I happen to know a great deal about survival that no doubt would have helped you on your journey."

"But what about Rosie?!"

"This was her idea," Frodo shot back. "She told me I should go with you."

Rosie stepped outside just then, her youngest clinging to her skirt. "Frodo! Take this for the road!"

Frodo handed me his horse's reins, then stepped up to Rosie. She opened her hands, and inside lay a solid, white stone, bound in place by a leather strap to a rope necklace.

"And be careful," I managed to hear her whisper.

Frodo leaned down to ruffle his son's hair, then kiss his wife. "I shan't be long, Rosie. I love you." Then he leaped away from the door, slung the necklace around his head, and mounted his horse. With a rapid "hyah!", he turned and was down the road. I urged my own horse to follow, and while I didn't have the effect on my own mount, it did eventually turn and race after Frodo's.

Frodo and I talked little, mostly riding our horses frantically down the main road. They needed rest more often than I wished, and Frodo often goaded me to sleep. Some nights, nights where my shoulders pained me, Frodo would sit up against a tree trunk—losing valuable rest—and hold me until I quieted. Sometimes I imagined Sam was there, coaxing me to sleep.

That only made waking up so much worse.

Initially I thought Frodo packed too much food, and still now I believed it. We ate very little, less than I expected. Frodo had us eat in increments of ten minutes, or thereabouts. I wasn't often hungry on our journey, but I assumed it was less than Frodo was accustomed to; he struggled through it. I could only tell because sometimes he would reach for the food at his back, then leave it alone.

"Frodo, you packed too much," I insisted once. We were close to the edge of the Shire, and could resupply in Bree. We'd been on the road for six days, with no sign of Cohco.

He shook his head. "The first thing Sam told me when he came back to Bag End was that there was never enough food, that he should have taken better care of you. And while I'm sure he did his best, you could always have better."

"If you're going to starve yourself on my account, I'll start force-feeding you," I said. "I appreciate your concern, but it was when we got close to Mordor that we needed more food, not here and now while this food we have with us is still good to eat. What we need is lembas bread."

Frodo's head cocked.

"Elvish white bread," I said. "It's rather filling . . . much to my disappointment, but it's better than having nothing. If we can stop by Rivendell or Lothlorien and seek sustenance, we won't need to be so conservative now."

"We'd be best off saving all we have, in case there aren't any Elves left," Frodo said. "They've been going to the Grey Havens in swarms as of late, and the last ship is scheduled to leave in three months."

"Then we'd better find Cohco quickly," I murmured. I got to my feet, and we were on the road again.

We came to Bree and got a good rest there, stocking up on food before we pursued Cohco once more. I imagined he had probably made it to Bree and actually got something decent to eat before heading out, and with his lack of exhaustion it would be harder to locate him.

After two weeks with no sign of him, Frodo decided we should look off the main road; he couldn't be ahead of us now, unless he were pushing himself beyond his capacity to live. Frodo believed he didn't have anything to carry food in, and probably hadn't gotten much sleep, experiencing all of this new world. I didn't question why Frodo made this assertion, but I let him believe what he would, and we did decide to turn back.

That afternoon, Frodo was filling waterskins when he yelled my name. He came back, shoving through leaf-laden branches, with Cohco rolled up in his arms. He laid my son down on the ground, and I raced to his side. Frodo snatched his waterskin from his side and nodded to Cohco; I braced my son's mouth open, and Frodo let the water trickle into his mouth. He coughed, and his eyes widened. He grabbed the waterskin, drinking furiously.

Finally he sat back; I barely contained my gasps of relief. I spun around and grabbed a hunk of bread for him, thrusting it into his limply open hand.

"Come on, Cohco," I whispered. "It's time to go home."

He shook his head, and then his eyes widened again. He shook his head harder, bolting in place to his feet.

"No. Mum, I'm not going home. It's wrong for you to be raising me; it's wrong!"

"Listen to me, my lad: you aren't any sort of detriment to my life, not relative to how much I love you and want you to be there with me." I stood as well, but Cohco quickly toppled; he gripped his stomach, then his legs. He let out sharp exhales as he rubbed his calves. Frodo lifted him onto his lap.

"Cohco, your mother is right," Frodo insisted. "You may have attacked me, but you aren't made to go out and break yourself like this; going to Mount Doom is not the answer."

Cohco's eyes blazed. "Mordor calls to me," he hissed. "I must go."

Frodo and I exchanged a worried look: perhaps Cohco wanted to go not to kill himself, but to restore the Ring, or Sauron, or worse.

"Cohco, you can't go," I pleaded. "Come back. You'll be back to yourself in no time." I paused. "This is, after all, a time when your emotions are heated, and you need to let them go."

"If you can't help me at a moment like this, things will never change," Cohco insisted. His eyes sank to their normal color again, and he stared up at me intently. "Like it or not, it was because of _me_ that your beloved Sam is gone. It's because of _me_ that you moved out of your home, and it's because of _me_ that the Ring caused you so much pain."

He sounded convincing. I shook my head angrily. "No. No, you aren't. You are what I strive to protect and live for."

"I'm never going to stop pushing for this, Mum. I dislike myself as much as you ought to for me, and I'm going to Mordor, even if you drag me back now and chain me to my bed. I will find a way."

"And I'm not going to let you go, even if I hook myself to your horse until you come to reason and decide to stop," I shot back. It didn't sound convincing in my ears, but hopefully it made some kind of impact.

I supposed Frodo perceived that I was losing this fight, so he shook Cohco's shoulders faintly. "How about a deal?"

Both my son and I perked up.

"Neither of you will let this go, and while I agree with your mother, I'm sure you will fight your way out of whatever we do to keep you in the Shire," Frodo said, shooting me an apologetic look. "Thus, I have a proposition: why don't we test this out? You want to do something you've never attempted before: you're marching up to a volcano to throw yourself in, after traveling across the entire world with no idea what you're doing, as is made evident by your lack of food and water. Thus you would have starved yourself to death."  
"I cannot die that way," Cohco interjected.

Frodo pressed forward. "You won't make it to Mordor without Bix; you don't even know where you're going. If she takes you to Mordor, and can convince you that your life is worth saving, will you come back to the Shire and let this matter drop?"

I shot Frodo a frightened glare, but Cohco immediately held out his hand. "Deal."

I buried my forehead in my hands. At this rate, they would both push for Cohco's death.

I can't begin to describe how close we became. The journey to Mordor was long, and in spite of the peace of the land and the beauty of the time we spent, I continued to sink. I kept envisioning the epiphany and horror in Cohco's eyes as the lava consumed him, body and soul. I kept begging Frodo to let him turn back, to abandon him on the road until he came to sense and stopped pursuing this.

Nights were filled with their singing, their laughter, their conversation. I wanted to join, but I felt so heavy. The world became a blur, and every day that passed by was another bit of daylight, Cohco, and uncertainty. I dragged myself to Mordor, pointing them blankly one direction to the next. We passed through Rohan, headed south of the Misty Mountains for forty days as Gandalf had wished to do the first time we came through here. But now there was no Saruman to spy on us.

All this lack of attention made me feel lonely, unwanted . . . unimportant. Unlike when I had the Ring, no one cared about my struggle with my son. He would die lonely, pained, unassisted because of Frodo's blasted deal. And I would have nothing to return home to: a burned building, a heartbroken lass working at my side if she ever forgave me enough to come back, and Frodo's family, separated from me because of all the trouble I caused them.

My thoughts wandered yet again to Sam. I didn't want him to be gone, but after waiting fifteen years for him to come back, there were no thoughts for the future. I didn't think, even when I was younger and less hopeful, that my life would turn out this way . . . wrecked by decisions I made for the better.

We were just outside the borders of Rohan when I knew I couldn't let Cohco go through with this. I grabbed my horse's reins and yanked back. The pony protested at my sharp yank, but didn't move forward. I stared at Cohco.

"You don't know your way to Mordor alone, and I'm not taking you. I am not leading you one more step to a demise I am not willing to work towards," I said.

Cohco's eyes narrowed, but Frodo interrupted before he could speak. For attempting to be a mediator in this situation, Frodo wasn't doing too well, not in my eyes, anyway. "Bix, you don't even know if he'll die out there; Mount Doom could be a hopeless goal."

"It's a volcano, Frodo—I'm sure Cohco could figure something out, and I'm completely violating my stand as a mother in allowing him to go. I have food, I have the directions to Mordor, and I love my son more than anything. He is not going if I say he's not." I'd never felt so stubborn and irritable about anything, but now I had to take a stand to avoid losing him. Images of what I had not seen, Frodo throwing Sam from my life, replayed in my mind again and again.

I turned sharply to Frodo. "You're just trying to get rid of him, aren't you? Attempting to appease my conscience and give my son a chance to protect your family from him? This just does all of your work for you."

Frodo's jaw dropped. "Bix, I would never—,"

"Say no more," I snapped. "Cohco and I are going home until you can rethink your consideration of him. And he is _not_ dying." I reached forward and grabbed Cohco's horse by the bridle, slipping the reins from his fingers. I clicked my horse into a jarring trot, and Cohco's mount followed.

Frodo did not make any move to pursue us, and I didn't question it.

We only moved for about ten minutes before I heard a thud behind me, and I whipped around to see Cohco on the ground, stubbornly clawing his way across the dirt.

I sighed and stopped my horse before leaping down. I grabbed Cohco by his torso; he growled under his breath.

"Get on the horse, Cohco," I insisted. "We're going home, and you must learn to love your life as it is. I'm sure there's nothing you can do."

"Mum, you don't understand," he said. I reached forward, one hand clasping his shirt collar, and directed his horse back towards me with my free hand. I couldn't lift him to save my life—or his, for that matter—but I felt horribly stubborn that day. I slapped his hands over the horse, grabbed him by his breeches and tunic, and dragged him up towards the horse.

At last, he complied and slid into place. But he had a calculating look in his gaze as he did it, and I wondered if it would have been smarter to leave him on the ground; he'd never get to Mordor.

"What don't I understand?" I asked, folding my arms. "I know what you've already told me, and as your mother at over four times your age, I'm telling you that there is always hope." Then I paused; I didn't really believe that, did I? Well, I could for him, right now. Even if I didn't have manifestations of hope all through my own life, he needed to believe there was hope out there. Then he'd come home.

He shook his head. "I asked Frodo, and I asked Gandalf when I was little. I have too much of the Ring in me; as long as I live, evil is stirring."

"What are you talking about?"

"There are orcs gathering in Mordor," Cohco said, emphasizing every syllable. "Mum, if I don't get back to Mordor and die, the armies of the Dark Lord—dead as he may be—will revive again, under my command. I feel the call of my old home." His eyes descended into a menacing gold. "You will be my new master. We will be one, One to rule all, be the master of every slave." He reached down, grabbing my cloak with two hands. "We are inseparable, Bixbite of the Shire."

My eyes widened, and I strained to back out of his hold. His hands clamped tighter.

"Join me," he hissed. "We will rebuild Barad-dur, in your name. We will be the glory of this world! Imagine it; you never had anything to aspire to. Any strain for greatness you ever attempted only brought you lower, sinking to the ground. But think of it! You will be in charge. You will have the grandest armies at your command . . . and you will find your Sam, bring him to you safely and be with him as you always wanted. Bag End would be yours if you wished Frodo to give it to you, and so much more! Palaces, races, all under your power the way you wish it. The world could become perfect, orderly, under your control."

I paused. Of course I never wanted power. But in considering that, perhaps Cohco—no. No, no, no, this was all wrong. He was too much like the Ring, only young and impertinent, unpracticed in the way of enticing man to his will.

"Cohco, what is wrong with you?!" I tried to shake him, but my arms would not move; they were pinned down by his fingers. "Listen: you're my son, not the Ring. You're my everything. Don't do this. Please; I love you. Snap out of it!"

"I am the Ring!" he bellowed. "I am the One! You will bow to me or you will become one with me."

"No. You are not powerful enough; you cannot even walk by yourself! I won't let you."

Cohco threw me to the ground, and my head smacked against a tree. Spots flickered in my eyes.

"You dare to defy me." He sat up straight on his horse, who fidgeted uncontrollably, tossing its head and sidestepping. "I shall call the armies of Mordor after you, and you will beg to come back to me."

"What do you want with _me_? Frodo is stronger than I, smarter than I; why do you not choose him?"  
Cohco's eyes sealed shut, and a glow spread from underneath his eyelids. He murmured something under his breath . . . and a storm swirled above us. The sun quickly concealed itself, and sparse trees dotting the landscape began to tremble. Cohco's chanting echoed through the air, like a thousand whispers repeating their darkness. I clamped my fingers over my ears, but soon the whispers became screams, carving through my ears.

The language of Mordor.

My scream joined them when the impact of a stab crushed my shoulder. I buckled to the ground, grabbing at my scar fruitlessly. My jaw strained open, and I convulsed in place as though to stop the pain. Cohco's voice slammed my ears.

After what seemed like an eternity, I passed out.


	21. Sacrifice

When I awakened, Cohco knelt above me. The sun shone brightly behind his head, and I squinted up at him. Sweat trickled down his face, and after allowing myself to soak up my surroundings, I realized it trickled down mine as well.

"Mum, are you all right?" Cohco whispered.

I nodded, then winced; icy pains still traveled throughout my shoulder and chest, pressured and sore. "I shouldn't move," I said.

"Mum, you have to. The Ring—I—summoned orcs," he insisted. "They're coming for us. They'll kill you if you didn't give the Ring what it wanted."

I sat up, then sucked in a breath; my shoulder protested. I rubbed it as I spoke. "This isn't just a matter of what happened at home," I said. "Why didn't you ever tell me about this?"

Cohco stared down at his hands. They trembled as he turned them over and over, flipping them, staring at them as though they were some foreign entity. "I didn't know I could do that," he said. "The Ring has been whispering to me for a long time. And I know it's truly gone, but part of it is still in me." He glanced up. "Some of my blood is golden."

"You told me that," I said, then bit my lip; urgent as I was to get this all resolved, Cohco had to say what he had to say.

He nodded dismissively. "Of course." Then he sighed. "Mum, if I don't do this, not only will your happiness not be fulfilled, but anyone I have ever felt enmity for, at any point in my life, will suffer at the hands of the evil within me. Mum, I've tried to be a good lad all my life, just like you taught me." He stared at the ground, then pressed against it with both palms and strained to stand.

"Cohco . . ."

"There's nothing you can do," he managed. He shakily stood, then shuffled through the ground over to his horse. He'd managed to tie our two steeds to a scraggly little tree, now devoid of all its green and half of its branches; I couldn't imagine how strong that wind must have been.

Cohco exhaled powerfully, then mounted his horse. "The orcs are coming, and my presence will summon all sorts of greedy, awful creatures. We _have_ to move. If we go back to the Shire, we kill everyone. Going back to Mordor is our only choice." He snapped his horse's reins, headed west . . . the wrong way.

I shook my head and stood to follow, but he just went around in a circle.

"Mum, I need your help. I can't do this alone," he said.

I mounted my own steed. "I won't be much help; I love you too much to let you do this."

Cohco reached over and grabbed my shoulder. "That's why the Ring wants you! You're susceptible, Mum; I know you love me, but I keep telling you that you don't because I have to convince the Ring to stay away from you. You can't let him have that; if he has no one that will be his mortal strength—I cannot walk, but you can—then he cannot be."

I sat there and calculated. I calculated and I pushed, I tried and I shoved. I could think of nothing. Cohco was right; taking him back to the Shire was too dangerous.

I would have to die with him in Mordor. I wouldn't live without him. I had already lost too much.

"All right," I said. "We will go to Mordor."

He gave me a skeptical look, but that soon gave way to a grateful but fearful smile. I wanted to reach out and squeeze his hand, tell him things would be all right, that as long as we were together death was no pain and no torment, but he just smiled and nudged his horse, again towards the west.

"It's this way, Cohco," I said. He turned sharply and followed me . . . back to the mountain of fire.

It didn't occur to me until the scraggly tree marking our location was out of sight that we had no idea where Frodo was. We hadn't run into him, and Cohco said he hadn't seen him through the storm, so if he had gone home he had gone a different route—unless, of course, he was lost. He didn't have any idea how to get back to the Shire, unless he had an incredibly excellent memory as well as a sense of direction.

"Cohco, we have to find him!" I cried. "Rosie won't be able to handle all of his responsibilities herself! We can't just let this go!" I turned to find him, but Cohco grabbed my elbow.

"You're just trying to stall the inevitable," he said. "And even if you are so worried about Frodo finding his way home, remember: he's a Baggins, and he's smart. The orcs will follow us, so he's probably safer alone. He also has half the food supply, and if he's headed home he's headed towards Bree. This is Rohan; there are probably cities of people everywhere. Hopefully generous people," he added.

I still didn't move.

"Come on. We're running out of time," Cohco persisted.

Finally I tore my gaze from the distance and urged my horse to plod along. I wanted the animal to replicate how I felt, shuffle over the dirt road as though it was being led to its death, but it persisted in keeping its head up, as though excited to be seeing this new world.

"I didn't apologize to him," I muttered.

Cohco glanced back at me. With my lack of energy and having told him which general direction to go to Mordor, I could stay behind. "What?"

"I told Frodo he was conspiring to get rid of you," I said. "I'm sure now that it's not true; I suppose I was just angry then. But I never apologized." My gaze fell to the ground again.

My son didn't speak for a long moment. "Mum, did you ever ask Sam why he loved you?"

I didn't know why he knew this much about Sam; I never spoke of my former life with Cohco. "No."

"Well, I think you're too hard on yourself," Cohco said. "And I think that if Sam were here with us right now, he would say the same thing. I think he might love you for reasons like mine, like Frodo's."

I didn't want to know what they were. I didn't feel like I would accept any sort of reasoning.

"You're always trying to do the right thing, Mum," he said. "You try to be the best mother you can be for me, and when Frodo tells you something, you go along with it unless you think it's wrong. You don't question what you think knows better than you do. Frodo threw Sam out of your life, and you could have been angry but you weren't. He also told me he started the rumors about you, because I was born with no father, but you still seek his forgiveness, not his apology. You've pushed through so much, and even after how stubborn I've been, you're still following me to Mordor." Tears broke into my eyes, but he kept going. "And you took Snowbelle in when she didn't have anywhere else to go, even though she was being raised by Lobelia, and that you thought she was prettier than you."

My head shot up. "What gave you that impression?"

"You started wearing your hair up like she does," Cohco said dismissively. "And wearing your cloak like she does. And you moved out to give Frodo room when it wasn't convenient for you. On top of all that, you currently hold no grudges . . . except for against yourself. But you've been doing wonderfully!"

I truly had nothing to say to that.

He stared back at my blank expression. "So no wonder Sam loved you! I think he left to find something that would help you."

That brought a smile to my face, and a little lilt to my heart. "Thank you, Cohco. Do you need me to list all the reasons why you're loveable now?"

Cohco threw it off. "Nonsense. I'm a lad; we know all the wrong reasons why we should be loved."

I laughed at that, and was rewarded with a grin from Cohco.

The rest of that day looked to go peacefully. But Cohco suggested we hide under any trees or in any caves we could find, just in case orcs did decide to show up. We stayed up late looking for one, but by the time we found something, I could hear hooves somewhere ahead of us, close to the little thicket we'd located. I held up a hand, and Cohco stayed back.

A horse wandered out of the thicket, sniffing the ground. It limped as it wandered, and soon its leg collapsed out from under it. My horse tossed its head and trotted towards the creature; I didn't stop it. Then I realized I recognized the horse: Frodo's horse.

"Frodo!" I cried. He had to be around here somewhere, I gathered.

Then I heard a moan, and I glanced down just between the horse's legs. I gawked: a dagger lay embedded in the pony's front shin, and an arrow protruded from its hindquarters. Frodo lay prostrate some three feet off of the horse's position, one arrow in his arm and another in his side.

I leaped over the horse. "Cohco, help me!"

Cohco, evidently not having seen Frodo, attended to the horse first, snapping the arrow out of its flank. The horse groaned in protest, kicking at me. I reached for Frodo and dragged him away from the flailing animal while Cohco worked on repairing its leg.

I worked to do as Cohco had done, wrapping my fingers around the arrow in Frodo's side.

Frodo gasped a series of words, but I couldn't understand them. I leaned down, and he nearly shouted in my ear.

"Grab something to wrap it in," Frodo managed. Then he twisted with a shock of pain. "Blood will come pouring out, and I will only stand losing so much."

I grabbed his cloak, wrapping it with decent difficulty around most of his torso. Then I grabbed the shaft and yanked back, but the arrow snapped. Frodo cried out; some of the tip had come out, but not all of it. Blood immediately trickled down his side, staining his shirt.

I scrambled for the rest of the arrow, finally yanking it free. Frodo gasped for air, and I bound up the wound as best I could. Frodo slacked against the ground, sweating and hyperventilating. I reached for the arrow in his arm, but thankfully Cohco got there first, and soon he had Frodo's sleeve ripped off and wrapped around the wound as well.

I grabbed food from our pack and offered it to Frodo, but Cohco shook his head.

"He needs medicine; food may or may not do him good."

Frodo took the bread from my hand, and Cohco shrugged it off.

"I suppose every situation is different; Frodo told me, when he was teaching me procedures, that food isn't always the solution."

Frodo exhaled powerfully and slacked down, then twisted, caving in to his side. Cohco and I both leaped to help, but there was nothing we could do.

"Orcs . . . coming." He sucked in a breath and pressed his palm flat into his side. His eyes sank shut, driving my heart to thud against my chest. I suddenly had the impression that Frodo was dying, or at least could have died. I suppose I must have gasped or something, because Cohco reached across Frodo's stomach and squeezed my hand.

"Where are they?" Cohco asked. "Will we have time to get you out of here?"

Frodo shook his head quickly. "Go. They think I'm dead; they won't bother with me. You probably should get going in the next hour or so."

"Frodo, we're not leaving until you're better; we can hide!" I protested.

His eyes creaked open, and he looked at me. "Bix, I know you don't like it, but you have no choice. Cohco must either go to Mount Doom and destroy himself or find some way to root out the Ring from within him. No, you can't do that by psychological means; he would have to be bled almost to death for that."

I sat back. "Frodo, I'm sorry."

His eyes closed again. "What for? You didn't shoot me. And you didn't force me to come along."

"For everything. For troubling your family, living under your roof for so long even though I had no right, for believing you were trying to get rid of my son."

Frodo chuckled. "As to that, Bix, I'm afraid I was. Not in the way I can imagine you were thinking, but I knew he wouldn't stand to live beyond his time capacity. And Gandalf warned me, before he was born, that there was some dark magic in him that could never go away. Bix, he must die. There is no choice, there is no other way. The world will be overwhelmed with the second darkness you fought so hard to destroy before."

I wished he wouldn't say things like that in front of Cohco; my son's gaze shot to me, his eyes wide. He'd known about the Ring, but I supposed my fight in this was something he hadn't yet understood.

"You see, Mum? I'm just another Ring in your life," Cohco protested. "Frodo is right." He stood and grabbed the reins of Frodo's horse; the mount strained to its feet, nearly throwing Cohco over with its movement. "And we'll get him to safety before we go to Mount Doom; I wish we had something to help him with, but there's no supply for miles."

"Just leave me with food and I should be fine," Frodo agreed.

I threw my hands in the air. "You both are insane! It's too dangerous for him to be out here, alone with two arrow wounds barely bound and dressed." I whipped my head back to him; the sting in my neck from all this movement ached, but I tried to push through and ignore it. "We'll move to higher ground to avoid the orcs until Frodo can walk and ride for himself. That should only be two or three days at most, which will not stall our progress to Mordor long."

"Mum, two days is too long for a group of orcs to run amuck, catching up to us," Cohco pressed. "We have to keep moving, and we have to keep moving fast."

I looked to Frodo for compromise, or submission, and his eyes narrowed. A frown bent over his face, one of calculation.

"You two could keep moving," he said, turning to Cohco. Before I could protest, he looked at me with a silencing glint in his eye. "And I will catch up to you. Bix, I do believe it should only be two days; neither arrow was deep, but I will bleed out if I move. But if you take a decent pace—not fast or slow—then I can catch up to you within the week."

"But you don't know where to go!"

Frodo nodded to a white flag stationed in the distance. "The border of Gondor is close; I know your road goes east now, and I can follow you there."

"We may have to get off the main road," I warned. "Orcs would be less likely to travel along the steeper paths."

"You are on horses; you can outrun them," Frodo insisted.

Cohco shook his head. "We won't only have to run from orcs. Trolls, dragons, all sorts of dark creatures could be drawn to us."

Frodo shrugged. "There's nothing you can do about other dangers. But getting into Mordor has probably never been easy; in fact, it may be more accessible now than it ever has been." He stared up at the sky, and his eyes widened. "Now get out of here. They can track you for an hour or two more, but unless there are any Urukhai you shouldn't be in too much danger."

Cohco nodded reverently, then gripped Frodo's hand. "Thank you, Frodo. Good luck; we'll hopefully see you within the week."

They held a moment of silence. I supposed then that I never really understood how they cared for each other.

And for once I did not envy. It was a love they shared; I had love of my own, for every person in my life important to me.

At last Cohco stood, grabbing some food from our pack for Frodo. He tied Frodo's horse down to a nearby tree, then hopped on his own steed.

I knelt down by Frodo's side; I trapped my lower lip in my teeth, unable to tell him goodbye. I couldn't shake the feeling that I might never see him again, that I might have just yanked Mr. Baggins away from a loving family and a grateful Shire.

Frodo smiled at me. "I love you, Bix." He beckoned me closer, and I rested my head against the ground by his own. He turned and kissed my forehead. "My sweet girl," he whispered.

"Frodo, I don't want you to leave," I murmured.

"I'm not dying," he said. Then he flinched, slipping his hand over his stomach. I sat up, unbuttoning his shirt to look. The wrapping job wasn't too bad, but the wound didn't look nice: a splatter of red covered his whole side, and I shuddered.

"Rosie is going to kill me," I added.

Frodo laughed, then coughed, pressing against the wrapping. "No, she'll kill _me_. You'll do all right."

"Mum, we have to go," Cohco warned, peering through the trees. "I think I hear something."

"You were what kept me going when Father left," I confessed, staring down at him. Frodo smiled. "And when Sam went away, and every time since then." I squeezed him close, minding his stomach. He limply laid a hand on my back.

When he finished, he pushed me away. "Now get out of here; I need you to come back to me, hear?"  
I tore my gaze away from him, leaping onto my horse. Cohco ordered me not to look back, then barreled into the woods.

But my eyes still strayed to my cousin on the ground . . . and the shapes approaching in the forest behind him.


	22. An Army

It didn't seem like long before I could see the Ash Mountains in the distance, just across from Osgiliath. I realized the days weren't so dark there anymore; sunlight—desert sunlight—illuminated a gray land beyond the mountains. But Minas Tirith across the way appeared to flourish. I didn't see any volcanic smoke, thankfully, and for a moment I hoped this couldn't be done.

But when Cohco shouted that orcs were coming, I realized we had no other choice.

I'd been eating breakfast, and he raced to my side. He'd been up on the next hill, looking out for signs of hostility. We were planning to stop at Osgiliath for food before moving on towards Mordor.

"Mum, there are dozens—no, hundreds. Hundreds, Mum! We've got to warn Gondor!" he cried.

"They have soldiers; as long as we tell them, they should be fine," I assured him. I realized he probably hadn't seen an army before, hundreds in power much less thousands. It probably frightened him to think of innocents at the hands of those creatures. To be honest, I'd never seen orcs murder people, so perhaps I should have been scared as well.

But I dismissed the idea. I did pack up quickly however, and soon we were down riding to Osgiliath.

We reached the river between Gondor and Mordor before I realized just how big of a body of water we had to span. I glanced behind me . . . and that's when I saw them.

There weren't hundreds. I could only _see_ hundreds, swarming over the hill. When I glanced over at the Black Gate, I saw almost a thousand more pouring from the front of Mordor.

"Hundreds?!" I shook my head; I couldn't berate Cohco for this. "Come on; we must get across."

"Is there a bridge?" Cohco stared at the head of the city; it did not appear that there was a way across. And there were only ruins in Osgiliath; the city hadn't been rebuilt, if it was in their interests to do so at all. We would have to go to Minas Tirith.

"No," I said. "We'll have to leave the horses and food behind—,"

Before I could say more, Cohco urged his horse forward, and it charged right through the river. I didn't have time to gawk long before an arrow sprang up behind me, slapping into the ground right beside my horse's foot.

I urged the horse forward. It splashed right into the river, nearly choking me on the water it threw into my face. It strained through, dragging against my weight and the weight of my food, which would probably soak beyond recognition. I finally just threw it over the side of my horse, and finally my mount could clear the river.

I realized that I would probably regret just not throwing my food onto shore.

The horse galloped off after Cohco's; we reached the doors of Minas Tirith within minutes, but the orcs were gaining on the river, ready to trample right through the ruins of Osgiliath. There were probably a few guards stationed there, and I winced at the thought of what would happen to them.

I banged on the wooden doors of the palace. "Please!" I cried. "I must speak to King Aragorn; orcs are on the march!"

After an agonizing five minutes of banging from me and Cohco on the doors, they finally opened. I didn't care to dismount, just urged my horse up onto the street. The palace itself was at the top, I knew, but I had never really gotten up there this way.

The guards that opened for us grabbed my reins. "Hold there; who are you?"

"I am Bixbite, of the Shire," I said. "This is my son Cohco. We're here to speak to the King; I am a friend of his."

"I'm afraid the King is meeting with the leaders of Rohan," the guard said, not apologetic at all.

I grabbed my reins and yanked them away. "You don't understand! There are orcs on the attack! I must speak to Aragorn!"

The guard's eyes widened, and he stared outside. Orcs had begun marching through the river, and he barked orders for the doors to be shut. Soon Minas Tirith closed behind us, and he gestured forward.

"Go." Then he turned back to his fellow guards, shouting orders and warnings, telling them to spread the word and gather the army. I realized as I urged my horse through the streets that there wouldn't be very many soldiers at Minas Tirith; they were probably out organizing peace, or keeping an eye on borders as they should.

Somehow I felt that all roads were designed to lead to the palace, for I found a main stretch that ran up the side of the mountain. But as soon as my son and I managed to get to the top rung of the main road, I realized it didn't quite lead to the palace. I muttered to myself and yanked my horse's head around.

After getting lost a few more times, I at last located an entryway to the palace. I leaped off of my horse and marched up to the doors, throwing one open. Aragorn, Faramir, Eomer, and a few other men I did not recognize were gathered there. They all looked up.

Aragorn stiffened. "Bixbite . . ."

"Your Majesty, this is my son Cohco," I blurted. I dragged my son into the room; he stared up at the men, and I realized he had never seen creatures larger than a hobbit before, save perhaps Gandalf once or twice, but the wizard wanted nothing to do with Cohco. "The remnants of the orcs and Urukhai of Mordor and Isengard are gathered outside your front gates." I paused. "I'm afraid we were the ones that led them so close to Gondor."

Aragorn held up a hand. "Speak no more. Faramir, our armies are behind the mountain. Elemor, rally your troops in Rohan." He glanced back at me. "How many are there?"

I shook my head. "At least two or three thousand strong, sir."

"Weaponry?"

I paused. "I saw no weapons up close. But I saw arrows, and they are perhaps carrying swords. No siege components and no organized leader from what I could see."

Aragorn nodded. "Then we may be able to win this, defeat them for good."

I reached forward before he could turn away. "Your Majesty . . . there is more."

He glanced down at me, then knelt down.

"I am but Aragorn to my closest of friends," he said. I felt the sincerity in his words, even if we hadn't seen each other in sixteen years.

"Thank you, sir. Aragorn, that is." Then I inhaled and exhaled shakily. "For reasons I shall not explain, my son and I must go to Mordor. Is there any back way through the city by which we could get to Mordor without being seen of the orcs? It is so close."

Aragorn paused, then shook his head. "The soldiers will be using those tunnels. Arwen shall take you through the army. I will arm you with weapons if you wish, but you will have to fight your way through or await the battle's end."

"The latter is no option," I said. "We will go through with Arwen."

He paused, as though rethinking his words, but then her voice filled the air.

"I will go, my King," she said, stepping out from one of the many arches surrounding the main hall. She then proceeded softly in Elvish. I caught a few of the words: "no fear . . . danger . . . destruction of wickedness . . ." Her eyes flicked to Cohco. I was glad at least someone understood without a thorough explanation.

Aragorn kissed his wife, then let her over to us. Arwen led us hastily down the stairs, back to where our ponies were roped just outside the palace doors. She called out for Asfaloth, whatever that meant, and soon a white horse met us there. She leaped astride it, but before I could ask for weapons the hilt of Sting filled my vision.

My eyes widened, and I glanced over at Cohco.

"I took the liberty of packing it," he said. "You'll need it more than I do; I won't die if I'm attacked by orcs."

With that, Arwen urged her horse forward. The ponies followed, slower than Asfaloth but capable of keeping up on account of the turns and buildings that kept the stallion ahead of us from a full-out gallop. The entire time I murmured a quiet prayer in my heart, to whomever could possibly be listening, that somehow Middle Earth could be saved. I wanted to ask that Cohco could be protected, but I didn't dare.

But I had to. I asked for it anyway. I asked for him to survive this, that by some miracle he would be able to arrive home, well and safe, to marry Snowbelle and raise a beautiful family.

Moments before I finished my last desire in my mind, we broke through the front gates. Orcs and the armies of Gondor clashed in the middle of the valley below us, and Asfaloth turned sharply to skirt the battlefield. We remained close to the mountainside, concealed hopefully by the array of fired arrows and slashing swords. I saw Gandalf in the middle of the battle, and wondered why he had not left with the Elves as he had said he would. But his effectiveness as a fighter cut off my question, if anything not to rationalize why he should not be protecting me and my son on our way to Mordor.

Arrows whizzed past us, rebounding weakly against the mountain. We were halfway around them when the stallion stopped short, and when I glanced back Arwen was gaining her feet, and Asfaloth lay on the ground shuffling. An arrow locked itself into his ankle; I could only assume that was the strategy of the orcs—if they had any at all—and that Frodo's horse had suffered the same fate for that reason.

Arwen fingered a sword at her side, then unslung her bow from Asfaloth's saddle. I wondered why she did not tend to the horse first until I realized an entire squadron of warriors was headed for her, maces and swords raised.

"Arwen!" I cried, yanking my horse to a stop. Cohco protested, but I locked out his cries to ensure she would be safe.

"Bixbite, get out of here!" she called back, letting an arrow loose. The head orc collapsed to the ground, followed by three more. The squadron slowed somewhat in its progress, and I urged my horse forward.

Soon we were clear of the battlefield; we just had Osgiliath ahead of us, and if we went through the sewers we wouldn't have to worry about crossing the river.

I swallowed. Close as we were, I didn't want to be this close: I kept forgetting we were going to sacrifice my son to that cursed Mountain of Fire that had created the very bane of my life, the very thing that turned to ash my greatest hopes.

I yanked back on my horse's reins, and Cohco shot me a baleful—but frightened—look.

"Mum, you can't keep pushing this off," he said.

I stared at him hard, memorizing his features. "I'm aware of that. But how can I condone this, Cohco?"

His gaze fell from mine. I kept his face within close sight, leaning close: he looked like a man, not a hobbit. His golden curls were a little too stretched for a hobbit . . . his bronze eyes too knowing and too old for such a young creature.

Finally Cohco glanced up again, opening his mouth to speak, but his gaze turned right to the sky. "Mum, look out!" He urged his horse forward, and it leaped away.

I shifted to the side, then glanced up, only to find an arrow flying right towards me. I leaped from my horse, crashing against the stone. I heard the scream of my horse, but I hoped the saddle took the brunt of the arrow. Then I heard hooves, and a cry from my son. I tried to tell him that I was still alive, but somehow the words would not form.

And then I realized I was passing out.


	23. Into the Fire

I awakened with a sore head, right where I'd fallen. But I smelled smoke everywhere. Both horses were out of my sight and hearing, and I didn't see Cohco anywhere. I coughed when I tried to peer into the distance; my eyes stung with fading haze.

I turned towards Gondor . . . and didn't see a living soul.

My eyes widened. Was I dead? Was I dreaming? I shook my head; I'd only hit myself falling on a pile of rocks. I grabbed at my Morgul stab; it stung on contact. Evidently I was still alive, and I bitterly lowered my hand.

I stood, wiping dust off of me. Then I glanced behind; what had been a structure when I fell asleep was now a pile of rubble.

"Mum, get down!" Cohco hissed, grabbing my hand. He yanked me back down to the ground as a flaming arrow zipped over my head, locking in a stone niche behind my head.

"Cohco, where's your horse?" I whispered. "And where did the orcs go?"

"The orcs are drawing back towards us," Cohco replied. "They're looking for me, and now the battle is across the river." His eyebrows creased, and he touched my forehead. I winced at the tender, newly bruised reaction of my head to his touch. He immediately drew back. "You took a horrible fall."

I shook my head, and my blood pounded. "That is of no concern." Then my stomach growled, but we didn't have food; I realized I hadn't eaten since that morning. It didn't truly matter, I decided, as Cohco and I were going to die anyway. "Come. We haven't much time."

Cohco nodded, then rose on his palms and began skirting across the ground. I almost insisted on carrying him, but we didn't have that option now: he could stay low, and I didn't have the strength to carry him, I knew. I hadn't done it since he was very small.

In spite of our best efforts, avoiding the orcs was time-consuming, and by nightfall we were still skirting the battle between the remnants of Mordor and the only warriors left in Minas Tirith. My heart sank when I realized that man was losing; even after destruction, the Ring was infinitely dangerous.

We traveled all night, but soon enough, close to dawn, the Black Gate was within sight. It was just as I had remembered, although broken down and slightly rusted.

"Come on, Cohco!" I cried. The poor thing had never gone more than perhaps twenty hours without any sleep at all, and he lagged behind. I grabbed his arm, helping him along, as though I were excited to be dead.

Then Cohco screamed. I felt as though my stomach had been impaled when I turned and realized a wounded Urukhai had just slashed a great dip into his leg.

I grabbed Sting from my side, ready to fight him, but he grabbed Cohco and started dragging him away. I leaped for them . . . but another arrow got there first, just in front of the attacker's face. He yelped, and a second arrow caught him in the shoulder. That got a bellow out of the Urukhai, but before he could find his attacker another caught him in the shin. He roared until I bashed Sting's hilt against the top of his head.

"Bix! Go!"

I stared up, dumbfounded. "Frodo?!"

Frodo clambered down from the end of Osgiliath, then grabbed the bleeding Cohco from the ground. He lifted my son into his arms and raced off, leaving his bow behind. I ran behind them, and nearly shot right into the river. Frodo gently waded inside, pushing through the water with Cohco just ahead of him.

Cohco's moans filled my mind as we raced for the Black Gate. I had to throw out the realization that I would probably watch him melt in the lava, whether or not we died at the same time. Tears filled my eyes before we even made it across the border into Mordor, and the moment we did, a blast of cold hit me. I buckled to the ground, shivering. Frodo did the same, and Cohco's head smacked against the rocky ground.

I'd been expecting heat, to be honest, but when I looked up all I could see was ice-shielded rock in front of me. Icy peaks surrounded us on all sides, and in the distance, the lower half of Mount Doom—the remnants of it—shed white smoke.

I didn't understand. The sudden climate change made no sense. I glanced behind me into the whipping wind; I could still see the green plains of Gondor.

Cohco shakily sat up, rubbing his head.

"Without Sauron to feed Mordor, it quickly fell the other direction, _too_ quickly to become normal," Cohco said. He did not shiver. "There is a curse upon this land; I suppose I should have warned you." Then he moaned again, rubbing the side of his head again. Blood trickled onto his hand, and he quickly wiped it on his breeches.

Frodo struggled to stand, rubbing his arms.

"And Mount Doom is there?" he managed beyond the chittering in his jaw. I recognized the disappointment in his voice immediately: Mount Doom was decently far from the Black Gate, but Sam and I had been farther away when we came through Cirith Ungol.

Cohco nodded, and his eyes glazed over. "Yes . . . that is it exactly." He rose up on his bloody palms and dragged himself forward, faster than I thought I could walk in this freezing cold.

I pushed myself to my feet, and my knees trembled as I stumbled after Cohco. I gasped at the sting of cold on my skin, and rubbed my arms to keep warm. Frodo stood with me, and we huddled together as we followed the nonchalant Cohco to Mount Doom.

For lack of food and water, I was thoroughly exhausted. Frodo and I stumbled together, nudging each other as we nearly fell over. I couldn't feel my feet anymore, and soon they were scraped up beyond recognition. My eyes sank almost shut.

"Here," Cohco said suddenly. I blinked at how close he was; I certainly hadn't been expecting that. He reached up and handed me his cloak, then gave his shirt and vest to Frodo. Cohco looked so thin . . . and I'd never realized how small he was.

He huddled against my feet. "Mum, I can't keep going," he whispered. Then his voice grew sharp, accented by a hiss. "The Mountain calls."

We pressed on. I did not feel much warmer with Cohco's cloak, but he looked very much as though he would freeze with his bare torso. As a mother, I couldn't stand the idea: he was probably all right, based on his lack of reaction, but I didn't feel all right letting him go that way. I wrapped his cloak around him again . . . and then processed that he was not moving.

"Cohco!" I cried. But his eyes were open. He stared up at the mountain, the half of it that remained looming over us angrily. I realized that Cohco was up to his elbows in blood, and when I glanced behind there was an unending trail of all our struggle flowing behind us. Even Frodo was giving out; before I could tell him to sit down, he collapsed against the mountain base.

I lay against the cold ground; none of us could move. This was hopeless. I wished we could all just die here, never have to worry about getting out or letting the war wage on, but the Ring would not rest until it was melted. Cohco would not perish here.

And that was perhaps my main reason for wishing we would never get up that mountain.

Then I remembered Sam. Sam was out there somewhere, dead or alive, and if he could see me now, he would tell me that he loved me. And I remembered what Cohco told me, about how and why anyone did love me: Cohco mentioned I could sacrifice. And now, I could sacrifice my strength and my son for the people I loved.

I strained to a sitting position. "Cohco, come on." I reached over and scooped him up off the ground; I nearly collapsed under him, but he was still a lad, about my height but much smaller otherwise. I sucked in a deep breath and pressed my bleeding feet against the mountainside, dragging myself up. "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you," I whispered. "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you." I repeated that to myself until I felt that I indeed _was_ Sam, that I felt him not so far away.

But before we reached the door at the very top of Mount Doom's remains, my feet gave out, and I slipped down. I nearly dropped Cohco.

He gave me a sympathetic look, then glanced down at his feet.

"Mum, let _me_ carry you."

I shook my head. "You can't walk," I managed.

"Neither can you, but I'm not cold."

Why did all of Cohco's actions have to be on my behalf? I loved him, but sometimes I wanted him to do something for himself, just so I would feel more fulfilled as a mother. Perhaps, I conceded, love is allowing someone to help you, especially if they just need to prove their own strength and ability to love you like they wish to.

Cohco teetered uneasily on his feet, then wrapped his arms around me and took me the rest of the way. He stumbled every other step, giving me the jarring impression that I would die before we reached the doorway, but he pressed forward. He nearly broke himself as well; the moment we breached the entrance to the volcano, he collapsed to the ground, and I rolled down the walkway.

Cohco stared up, bleary-eyed. My skin began to warm, and I realized the lava was still flowing warmly here. I stared up at the top of the volcano; ice crusted the edges, threatening to pour in.

My son stood and barreled for the end of the precipice. I grabbed his ankle, and he nearly fell over again.

"No," I pleaded. "Don't do this."

This was so much more difficult than letting go of the Ring. Suddenly I let myself understand that I would never see him again, that this would be a symbol of my abandonment of all the family I had.

"I must; do you want to see me become the ruler of this world, destroy everything you've stood for?" He didn't wait for me to let go before trying to take another step.

"I don't care!" I yelped. "I'll rule with you! I'll do whatever you want! Just don't kill yourself!"

His eyes glimmered gold. "You would?" he hissed. When I nodded, he licked his lips, his gaze distant. Then he shook his head hard, and to my disappointment he was quickly back to his old self. "Mum, don't. Don't. I won't be what the Ring was. Let me go."

"Never. You are my _son_. Without you, I have lost everything, Middle Earth or no Middle Earth."

Cohco knelt down beside me, and I reached up to cup his face. "Mum, you don't get it. You say that about _everything_ , that every last blessing is your little bit of hope. But Mum, truth be known is that you've always had something! You've always had Bilbo, or Frodo, or me, or Sam, or Rosie, or someone. You've always had a home. You've always had something to look to, even if you couldn't see it. What I'm saying is that you've always taken things for granted . . . and that even if you let me go now, you have a future, and you have something to return to."

I blinked. "Such as?"

"I made Frodo promise to take care of you," Cohco said. "You will always have someone, Mum. There is always someone looking out for you."

"He's right, Bix." Frodo limped to my side, putting an arm around my shoulders. "Let him go."

Cohco embraced me. "Goodbye, Mum." He kissed my cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too," I whispered initially, blinking away tears. I squeezed him close, memorizing his every feature and every bit of his touch. I had to let him go. The days of his life flickered through my memory, and I let out a rather abrasive whimper.

Cohco tore away from me. I restrained myself from reaching for him, barreling into Frodo's chest. I watched until he smiled back at me, then turned again to the precipice. I wrenched my eyes shut.

I heard the scatter of pebbles when he jumped, and I screamed his name.


	24. Bix Gamgee

Gandalf found Frodo and me. Immediately he took us back to the Shire, and we were home within a few weeks. I moved right back into Bag End . . . and the entire time I thought about Cohco. I thought about what he had told me about Frodo, and I was determined from then on not to take my cousin for granted.

Although I had lost my son, I felt a satisfaction I had never known before, in knowing that I still had something.

In spite of how full I felt in being grateful, my wounds never abandoned me. My stomach ached from time to time, wishing for my pregnancy rather than the losses I had faced. And while that was not the focus of my life, my pains quickly consumed whatever I had left. And Frodo didn't always have time for me; I had to accept that, in one way or another, I was alone.

I supposed Frodo could sense that I was getting worn, tired. He knocked on my bedroom door once; they had moved their children into other rooms for my benefit, and I hoped it didn't inconvenience anyone, for they wouldn't hear of anything else.

"Come in!" I called.

Frodo led Rosie into my bedroom. They both wore sympathetic expressions, and I invited them both to sit down.

"What is it?"

Frodo exchanged a look with his wife, then held out his hand. There stood a diamond ring.

I cocked my head, fingering my own engagement ring; I'd donned it again upon arriving home, having forgotten entirely that I still had it. Now I stared down at this one, Rosie's engagement ring, and wondered where else I'd seen it before Frodo showed it to me, why Father emphasized it.

"This is your mother's," Frodo said hesitantly. "I confess that I wondered if Bilbo meant you to have it originally, but I kept it in the hopes that I would be able to gift it to a lass of my choice." He again looked at Rosie, but she did not return the gaze, keeping her eyes gently locked on me. "I have done so, but after consideration, Rosie and I have agreed that it is rightfully yours."

I paused.

"And so is Bilbo's burrow. We are prepared to move out tomorrow, if Bag End is truly what you desire." He spoke faster now, while my eyes widened until my head hurt. "We are already prepared to move out; we have every child ready to be packed, and we already are looking at homes in Buckland. There is one in particular that Rosie is partial to, and I think you are more than capable of handling Bag End."

My jaw dropped. I couldn't believe this; Father's inheritance, all mine. The home I'd always wanted, the proof I so yearned to show my father that any female could be capable of anything.

Frodo held out the ring and dropped it in my palm. I stared at it, the symbol of all that was rightfully mine by birth and by designation. I turned it over in my hand, wonderstruck.

"Frodo, I am deeply flattered and overjoyed at your offer," I said. Both Bagginses before me slumped with relief, but I shook my head. "But I cannot take it. This ring belongs to Rosie." I reached for her hand, but she hid it behind her back.

"Come, Bix; this is what you've always wanted," Frodo persisted.

"Maybe a few years ago I would have taken up your offer," I said. "But going on that adventure . . . losing Father, losing Sam, losing Cohco . . . taught me something. Family is so much more important than possession, Frodo, and for me to tell myself, when I was younger, that I had no hope for life was wrong. As long as I had someone, someone like you or Father or Sam or Cohco or Rosie or even Gandalf, I had something to hope for: family and the people I love." I thought back to my pregnancy. "And even when I didn't feel like I had a friend in the world, patience brought me back." I glanced down at the ring. "Looking at all before me, I have hope for the future, not in Bag End but in you and your family. Besides, I wouldn't want to handle this place alone." I stood and held out my hand. "Please, Rosie; my mother would have wanted you to have it."

Frodo halted Rosie from taking it. He stood and hugged me.

"You are so strong, Bix," he whispered. "My sweet girl."

But even he knew I wasn't strong enough to live this way. I loved my family. However, when every day pained me to stand and to walk, to look around and see the memories of people that could never be replaced, to be enjoying myself and fall to my inner and outer wounds, life suddenly seemed like a passing thing, one I could let fall away and be the happier for.

Gandalf offered to take me to Valinor. He said Elrond had foreseen another war rising—thus the Elves arrived to defeat the last of the orcs that day, although I had not seen them—and now that the last remnants of Mordor were discarded, the Elves could be at peace and cross the sea. He said I would never feel my pains depart unless I went with them.

My father and I rode in the same carriage to the Grey Havens. He looked so old, but he was excited to see me and was still doing well. He asked me how I'd been getting along, and I expressed that Frodo was all right, that his family was in health. Frodo, Rosie, Pippin, and Merry were accompanying us to the harbor.

I hadn't told Frodo I was going. I could imagine he didn't want to be seen in tears, not by his children.

With my spare time, I had completed Father's book. The last pages would be for Frodo to fill with tales of his family, or an account of the war if he wished. I could imagine he would forgive me; I would be with Father if I went, and even though I was Frodo's sweet girl, I wasn't the most important in his life.

He'd understand, I told myself.

It went about as I expected. Merry and Pippin were saddened, Rosie heartbroken, and Frodo completely resistant. I embraced my friends and gave Frodo the book, told him to finish it. I also asked him to give my regards to Snowbelle.

"Bix, please," Frodo managed. He wasn't usually one to cry, but now a single tear tracked down his cheek. "You mustn't go."

I smiled at him and thumbed the tear from his cheek. "I'm with Father now. Care for Rosie, you hear? I'm going to go get myself healed."

"But you'll never come back."

"No . . . but I don't need to, Frodo. I have everything I need." I pressed on my heart. "Right here."

I kissed his forehead, and the moment I stepped on that ship an overwhelming wave of peace overcame me: I had something to look to. A future. A new life, far away from any confusion or pain or joy I'd ever experienced.

But I looked back; there was one wish I had never seen to fulfillment, but I supposed it was too late.

That 'suppose' turned into a surety when the shipmaster cast off from the Grey Havens. Frodo and Rosie stayed, and I imagined they would stay until I couldn't see them anymore. At the rate the ship was going, that would be long enough to solidify my goodbye.

Gandalf put a hand on my shoulder, and I nodded to him.

"Wait!"

My head snapped up. No, it couldn't be; he was dead.

"Bix, don't go!"

Sure enough, he raced right down the dockside, leaped into the water, and flailed in vain, trying to swim to the ship. I leaped over the side, diving down into the harbor. A rope vaulted after me, thankfully. I sprang up, dragging him with me. He heaved a huge breath, and then I studied him. His brown eyes looked so welcoming, and his arms felt so beautifully reassuring around me. Oh, how I'd missed him.

"Sam!" I outright slapped him, although based on my lack of experience with such things, I hadn't a doubt it didn't hurt. But it did surprise him. "Where on earth have you been?! Leaving me in the lurch like that? For eighteen years?!"

"Sixteen," he replied sheepishly.

"You wouldn't believe what I've been through! What could you possibly have been doing that whole time?!" I cried.

Sam coyly framed my face with his fingers and kissed me. My cry turned into a whimper as I kissed him back; I sank into his arms and held him close to me, let my lips submit to his own.

He let go a hair's width. "I was thinking of you."

I couldn't tell if my face was wet from the tears or the sea. "Sam . . . Sam, you should have come back."

"I did! But you were gone again, they said, so I went looking for you again. They said you were going to Mordor, but when I got there you had come back."

"No, before that! Where were you before that?"

Sam paused. "I was trying to find out what was wrong with you. I didn't know things would change, begging your pardon. I went to libraries and wizards and Elves trying to help."

"Sam . . ." My forehead met his. "My dear Sam." I dotted his face with kisses. "How I've missed you, Sam."

"Miss Bix, will you marry me now?"

I gawked. "I should slap you again." He blinked. "But I won't, because yes, yes, I will! The moment we set foot in Valinor, I will." I glanced back at Gandalf's impatient expression. "However, we should probably get back onto the ship first."

The rope had drifted with the ship's progress, and Sam reached forward to grab it. They hauled us back in, Sam clutching me close to him. We sat on the back height of the ship, watching Frodo and Rosie get smaller and smaller.

Soon we were clear of the harbor itself, out into the free, clear sea. The voyage took three weeks, they said, at the very least. But I didn't mind; I had Sam back.

He told me of his adventures, and I told him of my sorrows. I didn't mention Cohco's name until after I finished my tale, and Sam didn't stop me until then.

"Cohco?" he said. "I met a Cohco."

My heart fluttered, but I knew it couldn't be.

"He told me he was going home to marry a girl named Snowbelle Hornblower," Sam said. Then he paused. "He said his mother was a Baggins."

My eyes narrowed. "What did Frodo tell you?"

Sam shook his head. "Frodo told me nothing. This Cohco also told me to give you this, so I'm assuming you know him somehow."

Sam laid a letter down in my hand, not sealed or anything. I glanced up at Sam skeptically before I opened the thing. It was a single paragraph.

 _Mum, I'm alive and well. I suppose that's a lot to take in. When I jumped, I didn't land in the lava; there wasn't enough to make any kind of danger; I kind of caught myself on a ledge and let myself down to die, hit my head pretty hard after those last ten feet. But because my hands were cut, the lava drew out my golden blood . . . or so Gandalf tells me. I've been living in Gondor for the past few months recovering. I've been angry a few times, but without any real reaction. And Mordor was very cold. I'm going home to marry Snowbelle; Gandalf tells me you won't be home when I get there. I don't understand, but I hope you've found some kind of happiness. I love you! – Cohco Baggins_

"I guess that makes Snowbelle a Baggins, then," I murmured. I wished I could have talked to her again . . . but now I was on the road to a new home. I need not worry about that, I supposed.

"What?"

I shook my head, folding the letter with a smile. "Nothing," I said. I leaned up against Sam; he felt so solid and warm, and when his arms wrapped around me I nestled closer.

"I missed you, Sam." I found his hand with mine and pressed it to my lips.

He squeezed me against his side. "I wanted to come back, Bix, honest I did. I wanted to marry you, but thinking I couldn't talk to you, especially if there was a child—well, I didn't think Frodo would let me come back."

"I understand," I said. I almost asked him then what he loved about me . . . but I didn't need to know. I was done taking Sam for granted. I just took him by the shirt collar and kissed him again.

As we reached Valinor's shore almost a month later, Sam traced my long curls back behind my ear. "Welcome home, Mrs. Bix Gamgee."

 **Sorry this was so rushed, but I had to get it all up. :D A HUGE thank you to Diem Kieu, Jayla Fire Gal, and EtheGoldenSnitch for reviewing, and to all those that favorited and followed. I'll have another two Frodomances coming up, "Master of War" and "Slave," as well as a continuation of the K-drama Goblin. Hope to see you all!**

 **If you enjoyed this story, feel free to review! They are always appreciated. :)**

 **I bid you all a very fond farewell, until we meet again.**

 **-Sev Baggins**


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